Smoot

I don't write anymore

2011-01-11T01:44:00.003+08:00

Not because it's out of vogue, or there's no time. I've been working on my photographs. It's been more than 5 years of obsessing, learning, practice, frustration and renewing my interest through just not touching the stuff for a while. I still don't think I'm there yet, but anyway, let's see how far I can go without any more lessons.

Also, with time, I've become a lot more taciturn. I used to wonder how a bunch of Chinese people (all related) could sit around at a table and eat over New Year's and not really say much to each other (are they really all related?) but now I know exactly how they do it. There's just a strange invisible force that keeps all the words in, like each word weighs a ton and a half and needs to be lifted out with a crane. I bet I could eat an entire chilli crab now at a table full of people and not say a word.

With CNY just around the corner, I'm sure I will be getting some practice.

New Year resolutions for 2011: Don't forget to register The Son for Primary 1 (my mom forgot to register me and had to go begging 1 month out of time), learn to drive (auto), tidy up my office once in a while, don't forget to take my gingko bilobar tablets every day and try to put all the stray photographs of The Daughter into an album. The Son has about 6 completed albums. The Daughter has a really beautiful, empty album that has been sitting around for about a year. I believe it may still be available when she's looking for someplace to keep her graduation pics.

In other news, I headed down to the Mapo Doufu place at the corner of Beach Road for lunch today with the Lunch Crew where we proceeded to order almost exactly the same thing we had ordered over the last 5 visits. Chilli, chilli, chilli, as far as the eye could see. Only it was strangely not so spicy. One of the Lunch Crew called the waitress over and said the words which would doom us all: "This spicy diced chicken with Sichuan peppercorns is not spicy at all. It's just fried chicken. We've eaten it. Can we please order a second one, but this time please make it spicy like it's supposed to be."

Uh oh.

When the 2nd order arrived at our table, everyone leaned back at the same time, like someone had just placed a bonfire on the table. I almost put my hand up in front of my face. The smell alone made my eyes water, as my nose prepared to run. I turned away slightly and saw.. the chef, standing just outside the kitchen, watching us. That's when I knew we were done for. He had even given us extra chicken ("Finish THIS, assholes!").

When we were done, everyone had finished an additional drink (I had 2 more, and was drinking up someone else's green tea) and we had also finished using 2 boxes of tissues. Boxes, not packets. In the words of one of us, "I think I have to lao sai soon". It took us almost 30 minutes to make it through that dish, with all the wheezing, tearing, sneezing and coughing. I'm sure the chef was laughing his ass off in the kitchen the whole time.

But we finished it. Representin', yo.

What's That, she said

2010-09-19T01:21:00.002+08:00

So The Daughter is almost 14 months old now and only because she was preceded by The Son who, from as early as I can remember, could simply not stop talking, we are completely freaked out by her rather stoic silence.

Which is not to say that she doesn't understand what's going on. Based on all the pointing, her vocabulary seems fine and she's picking up new words (mostly nouns) at a fairly brisk pace, but unlike her big brother, she's really not interested in repeating anything after us. He would repeat and repeat and repeat as often and for as long as we could, but she just won't. And while he was, and still is, a walking talking stream of consciousness, she seems to be far more reticent to share what she's thinking. It's like she wants to tell me, hey, I think you're a nice lady and all that, but I don't see why I need to tell you everything.

So it was a like a sunburst out of the dark when, as I was packing for a trip this evening and writing up a list of Things To Do in my little paper notebook, she suddenly leaned over and said "What's that?" in reference to my fountain pen. I almost fainted from happiness. What's that, indeed. All that prolonged silence, and suddenly you want to know what's that. "That's a pen," I said, somewhat dazed by the sudden turn of events. "Pen" she repeats. And smiled at me, showing all 4 teeth. I was so delighted that I passed the pen to her immediately so of course my Things To Do list is now quite screwed up. I should just rename it "A few of the things I have to do".

11.9kg.

Pu Tien Restaurant - Marina Square. Food is Great. Service is, well, self-service would have been better.

2010-08-15T23:53:00.002+08:00

The problem with having a law degree is that, should one's family have a bad experience in a restaurant, they would look no further than where I am sitting to decide who should write the letter of complaint. Because, as my mother puts it, "you should be good at writing letters what".

Frankly, as it is quite a busy period of the year for me and I was the one to pay the bill as well, I would have let this bad experience slide, but with my mother sitting on my neck, I have to get the complaint letter prepared and sent out quickly. Hence the time off from Photoshop this evening to put a few sentences together.

I have informed my mother in advance that, given the service levels we are now complaining about, I would generally have a low expectation of a favourable or any response in this case. Anyway, enough. To start.

Dear Owners of Pu Tien Restaurant (Marina Square),

LETTER OF FEEDBACK

My mother and I, together with my children, went to your restaurant on 8 August 2010. A copy of our receipt is attached for your ease of reference. By way of a time reference, we arrived at about 2.15pm, after dropping my son off at his gym class.

The food at your restaurant is generally very good, and we enjoyed it very much. Our experience on the whole would have been much better if it had not been for the following incidences:

1. Upon arrival, we were given a table in front of the restaurant. As we had a stroller and 2 young children with us, as well as a lot of baggage, we generally try to sit in a corner or at the side, so that we do not block or disturb other diners. Hence my mother asked the wait staff if we could sit at an empty table in the corner. She informed my mother (right away, and without checking any reservation book) that this table had already been reserved.

This explanation we found quite acceptable at the time, but it appeared much less acceptable when, 15 minutes later, we were informed by the same wait staff that last orders were being taken as the kitchen was closing. During the entire course of our meal, the table remained empty. My mother, who was seated facing this table, observed this. I do not know if your wait staff have been trained not to lie to customers like this, but I would suggest that a remedial training session is overdue.

Maybe it is possible that someone had indeed booked a table but not shown up. I would have been happy to explain this to my mother except for the fact that I had tried to reserve a table at your very same restaurant 2 days ago. I made the reservation in advance by telephone for 5 persons at 12.45pm on Friday, 6 August 2010. My party of 5 arrived at 12.44pm and informed your wait staff. We were asked to wait 20 minutes for our table. I asked why this was the case since I had called in advance to reserve a table. I was informed that all reservations made were subject to availability of tables when we arrived. The wait staff informed us that there were other people who had made earlier reservations, for example, at 12.30pm, who were still waiting for their table. So we went to eat at the restaurant next door instead, where we were seated immediately and without a reservation (the food was equally nice there, by the way).

2. We ordered a total of 6 dishes. Our food started arriving at 2.30pm onwards. Halfway through our meal, we were presented with the cheque, as not only the kitchen was closing but also the cash register. This I do not mind as I would save time later at the end of the meal. Other people I know mind very much receiving the cheque in the middle of their meal because it feels like they are being chased out. My family and I are not so sensitive. We did not feel like we were being chased out of the restaurant until:

(a) the lights were partially switched off 15 minutes later, while we were still eating;
(b) the wait staff gathered together less than one metre away for their very lively chatting session;
(c) a man in work boots and an apron started mopping the floor around us with industrial strength bleach; and finally
(d) after their long and loud chat, the staff sat down 2 tables away for their own meal.

I do understand that maybe we eat slow, but to put matters in perspective, our last dish arrived after the man started mopping the floor around us.

In future, I would suggest that patrons of your restaurant be informed in advance if they are ordering too much food, or if they have come at an inconvenient time, where they could interrupt your employees in their daily routine. I am sure the mopping with the industrial strength bleach could only have been done at 2.45pm in the afternoon on Sunday, no earlier and certainly no later. I hope we did not trouble your staff with our continued presence during their chatting session at the cashier's counter (where we indicated earlier we did not want to sit). And I understand the need to save electricity and to extinguish the lights even when your customers are still desperately trying to finish their meal with some dignity (forget about enjoyment).

Anyway, for what it's worth, the food was delicious! I notice that I only paid S$5.65 for the service - clearly this was not enough!

Best regards
SMOOT & CO.

Mini Reunion

2010-08-13T00:27:00.002+08:00

So I had dinner this evening with my Primary One class of 1979! Oh man. I really should find a less aging way of phrasing that.

Actually it was even better than it sounds. Our PRIMARY ONE FORM TEACHER was there. Totally awesome! I don't think she remembered us particularly well, and probably me not at all. I was not noisy or quiet or hardworking or lazy. Just somewhere in the middle, just another face in a crowd of very small mostly Chinese faces. Most of my Malay and Indian classmates were grouped together in another class so that they could study Malay as a second language.

Only 11 out of 42 of us were there. But definitely enough to make a lot of noise (mostly giggling). A friend of mine said he would not go for such a gathering as he thought no one would really have much to say to each other, other than what are you doing now. But I disagree by experience. I did have a bunch of things to say to everyone else. We didn't really get down to the what are you doing now bits as there was so much past, so much context, to catch up on.

Remember that scene in Charlotte's Web when the baby spiders all flew away, scattered by the four winds, to find their destinies elsewhere? Tonight it felt like 11 baby spiders came back to catch up over dinner. And in a strange and totally unexpected way, I left feeling more complete and at peace. Strange because all we really did was catch up on a series of shared memories and experiences. But I feel grounded because there are at least 11 people out there with the same memories that I have, even if they may mean nothing to the casual listener. It makes the memories more solid, more real, even with the horrifyingly large number of years that have passed.

Perhaps it is the realisation that there were possibly 10 different and alternative careers and lifestyles that I could have tried, instead of my present ones. After all, none of us have similar jobs, some of us never married, some of us never had kids. Anyway. Whatever. Nostalgia makes me ramble.

Wow it's been a while

2010-08-04T19:23:00.002+08:00

and I've been a little preoccupied.

It seems like just yesterday when we were bringing The Girl home from the maternity ward and she is now just turning One. Compared to her, The Son is an oasis of calm. The Girl, at the age of One, is already a night owl and learning to run and climb before she can even walk properly. She can scream and scold without learning to talk. She sleeps at midnight, almost every night, and I'm embarrassed to say I almost always fall asleep before she does.

This has led to many many good intentions to spend time on Photoshop which have not materialised. By now, I should be able to achieve a good BW conversion but I still can't. As at the current date, there are easily 10,000 photographs which require my Photoshop attention but which may never get it since I take new photographs all the time!!!!

Have been meaning to post her Milestones but have been putting it off for various reasons. Here it goes:

1. Flipped over early (3 months?), started crawling at 4 months, starting standing at 5.5 months (supported).

2. Started walking (with support) shortly after the 6-month mark, and began walking independently (albeit clumsily) 3.5 weeks before her 1st birthday.

3. Can say Mama, Baba and a few other words, has been able to for some time now, but refuses to attempt anything else. WILL NOT repeat after me, which I think is the root of the problem. The Son managed to learn many, many more words at this stage by being a little more compliant.

4. Can pick out and identify items and animals (Tiger, Horse, Camel, Elephant, Dinosaur, Giraffe, Dolly, Rabbit, ...) upon request. Sometimes she points with her finger, sometimes she points with a great fat foot. But usually she gets it right, to thunderous applause from the fans.

5. Looks like a WWF wrestler "Big Show" when she wears her sleeveless tank top Onesies.

6. Seems to be bigger and fatter than her brother was at her age. Also much more aggressive.

7. Really likes books. Messes up all the piles of books we set aside for her looking for her few favorites.

8. Teeth are taking their time to show up. Currently there are only 2 lower front teeth, and 1/4 of 2 upper front teeth.

9. Allergic to sea bass. Heavens to Betsy!

Bob Dog Turns 5!

2010-03-19T20:27:00.003+08:00

It is with great pleasure that I announce the coming of age of the Little Bob Dog. He has, after much fevered anticipation and at least 1 handwritten notification to me, finally turned 5.

Now, according to him, he can do "HAF" of what he wants to do. Because he's almost a big boy.

In keeping with tradition, I took a day off (well, after one meeting and a quick trip to the office to check on work, half a day off) to spend it with the Bob Dog. We took a trip to Vivo City, watched "How To Train a Dragon" in 3D and had a long leisurely lunch at Shin Kushiya where I watched with triumph and great satisfaction as my son guzzled an entirely serving of chawanmushi and asked for more. We have been trying to get him to eat eggs now for ... almost 5 years and, up till now, he has rejected egg in all its forms and incarnations. To be specific, we have tried:

(a) boiled quail's eggs (previously thought to be unrejectable because of their amazing sweetness);
(b) half cooked chicken egg;
(c) chicken egg cooked in Maggi noodles (we were looking to the MSG to drown out any egg flavour)
(d) egg boiled into his rice porridge;
(e) scrambled eggs with ham
(f) egg whites only, boiled into his rice porridge;
(g) steamed egg custard with minced pork and vermicelli
(h) egg mixed into fried rice
(i) just the egg whites off a fried egg, chopped finely and hand-fed with some really good chicken satay.

Anyway, later in the evening, we also gave him a plain chocolate birthday cake and 2 bags of M&Ms and an Archaeopterix (pre-bird/ flying dinosaur) to decorate it with. He enjoyed many, many presents from Daddy and a couple of presents from me, so I think a good time was had by all.

I couldn't help remembering, at various times of the day, exactly what I had been doing at that same time on the day my boy was born. I even remember some of the songs I heard on the radio on the day he was born. Maybe I will do that for every one of his birthdays. Somehow, as I get older and motherer, I remember my children's birthdays so clearly and start to forget my own.

Diaper Company Tells Local Woman To Stop Using Diapers

2010-03-08T12:17:00.002+08:00

You know it's a sign when even the diaper company gives you a signal that The Son needs to stop using diapers. While stuffing The Son into the first of his twice-nightly diapers at 2am today, it suddenly struck me that neither Drypers nor any other diaper company makes diapers larger than XXXL, which is exactly what The Son is now wearing, with some difficulty as he is getting a little too big for that size.

There is NO XXXXL or anything thereafter. What does it mean when the diaper companies don't make anything larger than XXXL? Does it mean I need to continue stuffing The Son into XXXL, or is it now time for him to transition from diaper-wearer to bed-wetter?

From here, the only larger-sized diapers available in the market are the adult diapers which, I notice, do not have any super fun happy cartoon pictures printed all over them, unlike the baby diapers. I need to table this for a family discussion. Maybe they will have big kid diapers available for sale in the United States, which we could arrange to bring into Singapore. Hmm...

In other news, The Daughter is standing up and cruising (walking while holding on to furniture) about 2 months early. Everyone is pleased except me because I realise the basis of all this early development is the fact that I ate a tonne of fish oil while I was expecting her, which I did not do for The Son. Which means that I will eternally blame myself should The Daughter turn out more intelligent than her big brother.

Just as a time reference to self, her bottom lower teeth are starting to peek out, she hasn't started speaking yet, but uses a variety of sounds to make known her intentions, feelings and desires. Mmmmmm for when the food tastes good, whiney noises for when she doesn't like the food and screaming and crying for when she falls over. She is using the pincer grip to pick up small objects so we can tick that off already. She has not yet discovered her hands, although I caught her looking at her left hand, front and back, yesterday evening. Finally, a bunch of hair has fallen off the back of her head, so there's a lot of hair in front, but very little at the back. We are doing combovers until it grows back.

She favours Western food (organic store-bought baby pureed foods) over Chinese food (home cooked rice porridge) at the moment.

Great Expectations

2010-02-17T14:25:00.003+08:00

So today, for reasons I can't get into, we are doing a bunch of research on employment stuff and one of the bits we need to fit into the big picture is what an average kitchen assistant/ dish washer gets paid.

The Ministry of Manpower helpfully directs us to Table 3.5 of the Report on Wages in Singapore, 2008. I couldn't believe my eyes. Maybe it's just me, but it says here that the average washer of dishes in a Singapore restaurant was getting paid a whopping S$1,013 per month in the third quarter of 2008. That's not a great deal of money in the long run, but I would imagine that if this is correct, then most of the inhabitants of sub-continent near us should be falling over themselves trying to get here to scrub themselves a dish or two. What the hell was I doing during my school vacation trying to get a clerical position when I could have been earning a relative fortune with a pair of rubber gloves and some Mama Lemon.

I kid you not. According to this report, some 482 kitchen assistants and some 64 dish washers swore on their mothers' graves that they were getting not less than S$1,010 per month in the third quarter of 2008.

And now that we are on the topic of office clerks, it says right here in the same report that 80 office clerks interviewed for this survey were earning an average of S$1,679 per month in the third quarter of 2008. We was robbed!! What did these 80 office clerks do to earn this kind of salary when I was signing up for half of this amount?!

"Upon what meat doth this, our Caesar, feed, That he is grown so great?”
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In other news, I have taken it upon myself to transport the whole ging gang, chickens and all, to Disneyland at some point in the next month or so. We have informed The Son accordingly, and he has kindly confirmed that he will attend.

Having gone through the brochures at some length, The Son has expressed an interest in taking some time off his busy schedule to meet Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck and Goofy. In particular, he plans to bring the Baby Sister to visit the House of Goofy with the full parental entourage and in preparation for this grand occasion, has begun watching "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" on the Disney Channel with renewed enthusiasm. The Husband and I, on the other hand, have limited our efforts in this regard to working on our Mickey Mouse improvisations. It just kills me to listen to The Husband scream and curse at other drivers on the road in his Mickey Mouse voice.
_________________________________________________

This post would not be complete without a post-script on my attempts to close my bank account with the world's local bank. It took me 1.5 hours standing (standing) at the counter alternately arguing and pleading with the counter staff, but yes, I closed my account with the bank in just one day. That I regard that as my singular greatest achievement of last week (maybe also this week) shows how low my expectations have fallen.

You Did What - Part II

2010-02-09T18:45:00.002+08:00

Over the weekend we had a blitz of innoculations at the House of Smoot, when The Grandma decided in a burst of enthusiasm to innoculate The Daughter against a host of childhood diseases.

In a second wind of enthusiasm, it seems she also innoculated The Son against chickenpox. And herpes. HERPES. So now we have a 4-year old in the house who is immune to HERPES.

If the news gets out, people will start to wonder if The Husband and I have a dirty little secret. Which, as far as I am aware, given that we have both gone through the horror of medical checkups recently, I believe we still don't.

In other news, I watched in horror as my credit card debt ballooned from S$142.87 to S$400, reflecting a 280% increase. I called the bank and waited on hold for about 3 minutes, while listening to their jingle about "flexible rates, flexible loans". Indeed. After much discussion, and after all the blood in my body had risen to my head and neck, they reluctantly agreed to waive what they themselves called "the penalty charges". A little bit of legal irony there, since it is well-established law in Singapore that penalty charges are unenforceable. Perhaps I should not have put it so exclusively. It is well-established law in Commonwealth countries generally that penalty charges are unenforceable. But it appears my bank (the world's local bank) is bulletproof.

I would cut up the card, but I don't want to ruin a good pair of scissors. I will attend at the bank this evening to pay my S$142.87 and use their scissors instead.

Oh Jesus

2010-02-08T10:32:00.002+08:00

So we've been trying to sell our house for a few months, and only (well, mostly) because The Mother wants us to move across the island and live opposite her house, so she can be closer to the grandkids. I'm sure that, 48 hours after we do move in and she receives the full blast of her grandchildren, she will be begging us to move again.

Anyway. I've always found property agents to be a little, just a little bit, fanatical about, of all things, God, but I believe the one that I have may just put them all to shame. For one thing, she keeps sending me text messages about her achievements. I can't say that I've kept them all but the latest one just poked me in the eye a little too hard, so I kept it just to show The Husband.

It goes something like this:

"Millions of thanks for your support n recommendations! I just received [agency name] Top 50 Achievers Award No. ___ position. [Agency] will publish in Straits Times and Lian He Zao Bao tomorrow full page full colour. All glory and honour to my Lord Jesus Christ! Yours sincerely [Agent's name] Serving with gratitude and thankfulness."

Maybe it's just my ignorance speaking but what about everyone else - did she mean to say that God didn't find them a similar spot in the top 50 because she was preferred? It's just like that big signboard I saw some time ago at Newton Circus, which said "100% units sold THANKS BE TO GOD". Does God sell real estate? Did he line up with the rest of the agents with a bunch of brochures to sell sell sell?

It reminds me of the contestants on American Idol as well who ask God to help them get to Hollywood. It doesn't so much glorify religion as it trivialises it. God is not your personal bitch. He should not be selling real estate. He should not be asked to sell real estate. Just as I try not to bother him with getting my clients to pay their invoices on time. If they don't pay, then I sort it out myself. I do not get down on my knees and ask the Lord of all Creation to make sure that Client X takes note of our 30-day credit period and also to make sure that when Client Y pays by telegraphic transfer, they make sure to add on the S$20 bank charge. It's just... not done.

Also, what bothers me about that text is that it has more than the usual "holier than thou" one-two sucker punch to it. It makes everyone else look like bloody idol-worshipping heathens for not EXALTING enough. For not collapsing on their knees immediately in a semi-conscious rambling state so as to IMMEDIATELY thank God for smiting all the other estate agents and making them non-top 50 so that she could be amongst the top 50. I wonder what the Top 10 are like. I'm sure if she made Top 10, she would be dragging some kind of live animal to the church altar.

Here Comes the Fuck-Lady

2010-02-01T16:53:00.004+08:00

I dropped off The Son in school this morning, and one of his teachers had a little chat with me. I suspect I was just the person she wanted to see.

So it appears that The Son's classmate went home and used the F-word in front of his horrified mother, who asked him where he learned That Word from, and was informed that her son had learned it from The Son. She informed the teachers of The Son accordingly. The teachers rounded up all the kids and asked them if any of them knew A Bad Word starting with "F". And the second syllable is "Uh".

My Son puts up his hand and says, helpfully - "And the last sound is "CK"!!"

So busted.

He then informed his teachers that yes, his mother uses the F-word, and she has used it on him too, but this was only this one time when she was really really angry with him, and she hasn't used it again since.

I was at a complete loss for words. Frankly, I do not ever recall using "the F-word" on him, although I use it in ordinary conversations with The Husband, and sometimes, unavoidably, in the hearing of The Son. Unless I have a lobotomy, there is no way I am going to change my ordinary daily speech pattern.

When The Son was 2.5 years old, he said "fuck" in the car. Mainly to himself, and apropos of nothing in particular (I think he was trying it on for size). We informed him several times, with rephrasing and repetition, that it was a very naughty word and that he should never ever use it. Since then, he's never said it in our hearing. I thought he had forgotten the word altogether. After all, we just taught him a whole bunch of dinosaur names and I thought that would have wiped out his memory space ("RAM") altogether.

What troubles me is that my son has shown himself to be far, far better at sanitizing his language in front of adults, than we are at sanitizing our language in front of him. He appears to be much more sophisticated than he lets on. Hmm.

Throughout all this, whilst his teacher is talking to me, I can't help but notice that The Son is hovering and lurking in the background, trying to eavesdrop and giving me really broad uneasy smiles. He has even forgotten to take off his shoes. His classmate, who has only seen me once, comes all the way up to the gate to get a better look, and I get the full force of a 4 year old's fixed unblinking stare. I guess he must want to see what a person who says "fuck" looks like.

Bisimillah Oh Yum Briyani

2010-01-16T22:04:00.003+08:00

I don't really like briyani (biryani? briyani?) all that much, but when a friend suggested that we check out this way kewl briyani place at Dunlop Street, I told myself we have to try new things and said lets go.

And what a lovely experience it was. The mutton briyani is eyes-rolling-to-the-back-of-my-head-toe-curlingly delicious. And the rice is so, so soft. I was rather quiet during the meal because the food was just. so. good. I don't think I've had such an aneurysm over Indian food since Mumbai.

The only thing I found a little disconcerting about the place is that it's got a lot more Chinese people dining in it than one would expect to find in a tiny little cafe somewhere in Little India. Both times I went, there were more Chinese diners than diners of other races. How unusual.

During my second visit, 2 guys sat at the next table. One was clearly there in his capacity as a food blogger. Ever since the phone companies started installing camera in their mobile phones, I've gotten used to people pausing to take photographs of their food before they start eating. Like the way people used to pause to say a prayer of thanks to God before they started eating. But now, they pause to take a photo of the food.

Anyway. After the initial pausing and snapping, I couldn't help but notice one of the guys start to deconstruct his briyani. He pushed the food all over the plate, dissected various chunks of mutton, pulled some of the mutton flesh apart, all the while taking photo after photo. I was a little bit torn up just watching him. The food which had been so well prepared, and which had arrived steaming hot at the table was getting stone cold. The soft fatty bits of mutton were starting to congeal. As I watched, his face and the camera (a point and shoot) got closer and closer to the food, until it started to remind me of the way we used to do dissections in junior college, our faces barely 2 inches away from the wax tray with the ex-cockroach scattered and pinned all over it.

Actually, he looked like he was conducting a mutton autopsy, with all that separating and scraping and photographing. Like the parents and family of the goat had asked him to put their minds at rest by determining the cause of death. And whether he could help them trace the perp.

Have you ever had one of those moments when it would be really really awkward to burst out laughing but you burst out laughing anyway, and then try to pretend it was a coughing fit? Yeah. I know all about that. The poor guy was so close to me that I could've reached out and touched him on the shoulder. Instead, I just spluttered and coughed into my lassi.

Their sweet lassi is pretty good too.

Things we would like you to remember, when you are engulfed in flames

2010-01-15T17:18:00.003+08:00

I've shamelessly borrowed this title from a great book by David Sedaris, but it summarises perfectly the current situation in our office re fire extinguishers and fire safety materials.

Owing to a rather enlightening lecture I once attended on fire safety procedures, I am now the happy proprietor of a not-so-small quantity of fire safety materials, including some 6 fire blankets and 2 premium quality fire extinguishers, selected for their lasting quality and multi-faceted usefulness.

It was quite a surprise to me, and to all attendees of that lecture, to be informed that not all fire extinguishers can be sprayed on the skin. Or at least, skin that is not wishing to become corroded by the fire-extinguishing material. It is generally undesirable for the owner of the skin to find that, having extinguished the flames, the fire extinguishing material should linger and proceed to dissolve the clothes and skin.

Or maybe that was just the selling line of the lecturer. The non-skin dissolving fire extinguishers were much, much more expensive than the corroders.

So anyway, our office now has a total of 4 fire extinguishers, 3 of which are allegedly corrosive (I've not actually fact-checked this) and the 4th, which sits in my office, not so corrosive although it would probably function as an efficient makeup remover. Staff have been informed that should there be a fire and should their clothes and skin be enflamed, they would do well to attend at my office for extinguishing assistance rather than to avail themselves of the 3 other extinguishers.

Of course this message to the staff would not be complete without one of the lawyers joking that, should anyone anticipate that they will be engulfed in flames, they should take the liberty of hosing themselves down with my fire extinguisher in advance. Which is exactly what the fire safety lecturer had said. Apply liberally on the skin before going out into the flames.

Excuse me what happened to your wallet

2010-01-11T23:24:00.003+08:00

At a particular stage in everyone's relationship with their parent(s), I'm sure there's a defining moment when you feel the balance of power shifting from parent to child. When the child becomes the one to call the shots instead of the parent. When the parent starts to regard the child as a grown up. When the parent reluctantly, but proudly, acknowledges that the child is ready to join the ranks of an adult.

Yeah. I think I had that moment with my mom when I got married. From there, it was pretty much downhill. The balance of power shifted right back to the parent after the wedding Ang Pows were opened. Or rather, there was another paradigm shift in our relationship, when my mother decided that she no longer needed to bring her wallet when we went out together. Why? Well because there's her wallet, walking right next to her. The wallet even pushes the trolley for her at the supermarket now. In fact, the only thing her wallet needs at this point is a driving licence.

It started with subtle hints, like she would allow me to pay for meals. Then suddenly, I was paying for all our meals together. And coffee too. Then one day, after loading up the trolley at the supermarket, she allowed me to push the trolley to the cashier and then promptly disappeared with The Son, ostensibly to amuse him or to take him to the toilet.

Now, I can't remember the last time I saw her wallet. All she brings with her when we head out is her car keys because I still can't drive. I'm lucky if there is even 20 cents in the coin pouch so that we can rent a trolley at the supermarket.

According to my girlfriends, I'm not alone. One of them recently went shopping for beauty products at Sephora with her mom and lo and behold when she got to the cashier's counter, there were a number of choice and rather pricey items in her basket that she never picked out. Another one asked a parent what he wanted for his birthday and was a little surprised when he picked out a rather expensive item. I guess at some point in the last decade or so, we crossed the line from adolescent to adult to paymaster. Or maybe the lines just got blurred so whilst we remained an adolescent adult, we also became a paymaster. I suspect that's a more accurate account of what really happened.

In other news, I got my health screening results, including the results of my eye test. Congratulations, my eyes can now fly a plane. Yay, me. The eye doctor's report threw me for a loop actually. It was written on the typical doctor's notepad, in the scrawly cursive that doctors always use, with squiggle at the bottom to pass as a signature. I realised that if I didn't look too hard at it, especially not with my newly discovered pilot's eyes, it looked exactly like one of my father's letters. My dad was a GP. He had terrible scrawly cursive handwriting. He used his doctor's writing pad for everything, even writing letters to his kids. The style, paragraphing and signature didn't change at all, even when what he wrote wasn't very nice. It even had the little rubber stamp at the bottom, underneath his signature. The paper had his name and clinic name printed at the top, and it was centralised. So now, when I see a doctor's report, a prescription or a doctor's referral note, I do a double take because it looks like yet another letter from my father. In keeping with his choice of stationery, what he wrote was also very succinct, pleasant or not. So it would be rare for us to get more than 3 sheets of paper, unless he was well and truly pissed off.

Coming back to the office and still holding my health screening results, I passed this poor young 20-something year old secretary, who looked up at me and said "Your dad called". Huh. I stared at her. "He said his name is Gerald", said she. I didn't have the heart to tell her that (a) he's dead; and (b) his name was not Gerald.

Saturday mornings with Flower

2010-01-08T18:30:00.003+08:00

While it sounds all nice and organised to say that I have a little hair cut-and-colour package with a hairdresser in Parkway Parade, the problem is that actually getting my hair done there with the limited weekend time available is an amazing pain in the ass. Where are the child-friendly hairdressing salons when we need them. Where am I going to find a child-free 4 hours this weekend, I would like to know.

This is exactly the reason why I prefer to nip down to the neighbourhood hairdressing shop in my condo to get the easy-but-urgent stuff, like the haircuts, done but there's always hell to pay when Alfred, my tiny little hairdresser, finds out. Alfred, when I'm sitting down, comes up to one head taller than me. He's always dressed perfectly in tiny little black clothes, and with his alabaster skin, jet black hair and perfect little pixie-pretty features, he makes me feel like if I just slap him with the back of my hand, he could fly across the room, and the scream would be so tiny and so shrill that dogs for miles would be scratching their ears.

With my permanently broken gay-dar in hand, I stare at him and wonder if he could possibly be gay. I can't imagine a girl going out with him (so breakable! so delicate!) but I really can't imagine him with a guy (again, so breakable! so delicate!). Maybe he is just not meant to date. I'm almost completely certain that I outweigh him by at least 10 kilograms.

Anyway, Alfred sylphs and swoops around my messy head of hair, lifts up a few locks and then asks me point blank if I've been seeing anyone else, haircutwise. And when I say yes, there's all this gnashing of tiny little teeth as he bemoans the travesty of the other hairdresser's work, how horrible, and how wrong it must have looked for me, because only he knows my hair and only he knows what I need. I don't dare to mention that the other hairdresser does exactly the same thing when she's cutting my hair, I think he will probably be so mad that he will swoon dead away. And then where will we be.

It could be me, but how odd is it that I am being accused by a gay guy of being unfaithful to him. Especially when he is so small. If I sat on him, he would probably crumple like a toilet roll. Frankly, I suspect the real problem is that he is just thinner, prettier and hipper than me.

Hello 2010 you sure took your time getting here but you're here at last

2009-12-31T22:49:00.002+08:00

One of the privileges of being a parent of 2 young children is that you have a great excuse to be sitting at home and at the computer on New Year's Eve. In fact, it is in itself a privilege to be sitting quietly at the computer on New Year's Eve, and not passed out in bed asleep by 10pm like I was last year at this time. Or, as The Husband reminds me, as we have been every year that we have been married. Fast asleep snoring in bed whilst all around us people are demonstrating their ability to count backwards from 10. Actually, last year I recall waking up cursing and swearing because of all the screaming from the people on the beach at midnight and the ships setting off their flares in joyous celebration. Then I went back to sleep.

But this year is different. This year I am not pregnant-in-my-first-trimester flat-out exhausted and crawling into bed every chance I get. This year I am awake, everyone else is fast asleep and snoring and I am drinking a little shot of Yomeishu in private celebration while I type out some random stuff for the Internet. Yomeishu? Who drinks Yomeishu? People who don't have any other alcoholic substance in the house that's not turned to vinegar, that's who.

I actually planned something much more cosy and interesting to do with The Husband on New Year's Eve after the kids went to sleep, but unfortunately he fell asleep so I'll have to save the Scrabble game for tomorrow. Rematch!

A girlfriend of mine just asked me yesterday to speak at her wedding in April 2010. Me! I've never spoken at anyone's wedding before, not even my own! I was absurdly touched at the request, and then terrified. It will be a big wedding. There will be many, many eyes all looking up at me while I fumble around on the podium and twist the mikestand downwards. With any luck at all, I will get to the end of my prepared speech, that's the best I can promise her at this point. I can't promise her there won't be a puddle of pee waiting for the next person at the podium when I'm done, or that the speech won't come to a sudden, abrupt conclusion with the bride running up on stage screaming SHUT UP! SHUT UP! Last of all, I can't promise her that anyone else in the audience, other than myself, will laugh at the prepared and carefully handwritten jokes. Maybe we should just bulletproof the whole thing and get the DJ to play a laugh-track.

Who is the person who gives speeches at a wedding? Is it the one who's known the bride the longest? Known her the best? Been a best friend? Where are all the calm, confident best friends with their insouciant smiles and their witty throw-away lines when we need them? I wonder about that now (and the happy couple will wonder about that when I'm speaking). Why does she pick someone who, by their own written admission, is terrified - still terrified - of public speaking? While I don't doubt the bride's ability and willingness to embarrass me publicly, it seems pretty unusual that she might want to do this at her own wedding.

But you're funny! she says. Well. We'll see about that. And we'll have the video to prove it!

_______________________________________________

It would seem appropriate at this point to round off the New Year with some wise words but I'm out of stock. This month has been the most insane month ever, in the last 5 years of my life, and that's saying a lot, since I managed to deliver 2 children in the last 5 years. I can't provide any factual information, but suffice to say I've moved office not once, but twice, in the last 3 weeks and it is only through my extreme slowness in unpacking boxes that the 2nd move of this month went relatively smoothly since the movers just needed to close up the boxes again before carting them away. So I can safely say that my personal effects have hardly been stressed out by the moves at all, quite unlike myself. I feel like roadkill at the moment (another Yomeishu!) and it is literally and solely through the grace of God that I have come out amazingly well despite the events of the last 3 weeks. I have not just survived, but it looks as though I will actually be okay. And my faith in God has been very much restored over the past 2 years.

I am not a religious person. 10 years in a Catholic girls' school only managed to partially undo whatever harm my atheist parents caused in failing to provide me with any kind of religious foundation at all, in that I do believe there is a God and his name is not Bhudda, Mohammed, or any other name. Actually maybe his name is Jesus (I said "partially undo"). Anyway. I believed fervently in the existence of a higher being who was kind and interested in my personal affairs and development right up to the age of 14 when Something Happened which caused such a major sea change in my views of God that we lost touch thereafter. Most people would assume that such a Something would involve a death in the family, or a death at least, but it didn't. I had a big, huge, massive, enormous, huge crush (oh, it was a big crush) on a 15 year old ACS boy named Christopher Lo. We met through extra-curricular activities organised by uniformed groups in our respective schools. He was hot. Hot hot hot. For a month, I pretty much staked him out the way a 14-year old girl with limited resources, no Internet access, a curfew and a home telephone under 24-hour armed mommy-guard would stake out a 15-year old boy who didn't really remember exactly who she was. That is to say, I sneaked off to a public phone a bunch of times and called him up to "just chat". Then someone who knew someone organised a really awesome canoeing and beach picnic event in Sentosa for a bunch of people, him and me included, and I knew this was my chance to really make an impression.

Something like 7 wardrobe selections and 100 or so hours spent planning and discussing The Event with my girlfriends later, I was well and truly ready. Locked and loaded. I think I was even almost completely pimple-free at that point. The night before The Event, I almost couldn't sleep. I wrote incessantly in my diary. I think his name appeared so often that a casual reader might think it was his diary. I prayed. I wrote out a bullet point list of topics that I could talk about with him. I even practised smiling in the mirror so my braces wouldn't show so much.

It rained that day. In fact, it didn't just rain, it bloody poured. I woke up in the morning and thought it was almost evening time, it was so dark outside. According to the news, there was more rain that day than any other day in the last 10 years. The. Last. Ten. Years. Canoeing and beach picnic indeed. I went anyway. He didn't show up.

I guess I must have had a pretty flimsy belief system back then for it to fall apart over something so small, but anyway, all fences have been mended now and save for the fact that I still can't bring myself to go to church, my faith in a higher power is fully restored. I will however never be one of those people who mention Him all the time or get into a long head of steam over "God's Love". I've asked him for help quite a few times over the past 2 years, and the response has been so immediate and so definitive that it is impossible not to believe there is a higher power. Plus, if you need concrete evidence that God exists, just try this man's Tagliatelle Ragu.

All I want for Christmas is...

2009-12-28T23:37:00.002+08:00

to finish my mandatory work-related health screening.

Scratch that. Christmas is over but my health screening is not. I just went back twice today for the 3rd and 4rd instalment of my health screening. And I'm still not done yet, there's another appointment in the 3rd week of January 2010.

All I want for Chinese New Year is to finish my health screening.

One amazing advantage of being a child of 2 doctors is that I never once had to go for health screening before this. As the biological offspring of 2 MBBS, I was lulled into a false sense of security that should there be anything even remotely wrong with me, either one of my parents would have immediately detected it. By osmosis, perhaps. Even my dad, whom I last had a decent conversation with when I was 11 and didn't actually speak a single word to from the time I was 13 till the day I picked him up from the airport at the ripe old age of 26.

Now that I understand how truly intrusive a proper health screening can be, I realise how terribly wrong I was. Which is quite tragic since I routinely comforted myself with this very thought when faced with the horrifying disadvantages of being a child of 2 doctors, first and foremost being that I get to enjoy every new vaccine that hits the market before any one of my friends (oh how different my life would have been if my parents had been movie producers instead). Also, contrary to popular belief, I did not get MCs on tap or a free-flow of medical certificates as and when I deemed fit, in fact, I never got ANY medical certificates when I asked for them except for this one time when I was pretty much too ill to get out of bed and my mother finally, grudgingly, passed me a medical certificate for one day's sick leave.

Finally, I don't believe anyone reading this has ever woken up from a deep sleep, feeling a strange pain, only to find their mother extracting a crapload of blood in a syring from their right arm.

But anyway. Back to the health screening. I have to say I almost ran out of the room when the doctor put on a rubber glove, pulled it snug on her hand and grabbed a tube of gel. It was like every bad cliche come horribly, horribly true. And that was not the end of it. I went through a series of eye tests, including something truly unexpected (and by unexpected, I mean unpleasant) bearing the relatively benign description of "ocular pressure test". A gust of air and a scream, is what I call it. Next eye, please.

Throughout the battery of eye tests, the doctor kept shaking his head and telling me, there's nothing wrong with your eyes, there's nothing wrong with your eyes. I wondered what was so bad about that. Finally, he shook his head one last time and proclaimed with some reluctance that my eyes were perfectly fine. Then he stared at me, as though he was seeing me for the first time, and asked what kind of company I worked for. A law firm, says I. Why do you ask? Well, said he, this test that you have just completed is for pilots.

___________________________________

You know what the problem with a blog is?

It starts off as a place you can write stuff in, stuff that you can't write down in a diary because someone could find it. Then after a while, it becomes a place that transcends my normal everyday life, where I can talk about stuff that perhaps doesn't really matter but it matters to me in a relatively insignificant way, but important enough that I want to write about it. It's also a place to vent about the small stuff, if I need to vent.

But I can't talk about the big stuff. The stuff that keeps me awake at night. Because that's conduct unbecoming of a solicitor. Because I am bound by rules of confidentiality and propriety.

So I talk about what matters to me, a little. What bothers me, a little. Stuff that bothers me a lot is what I know to keep to myself. Even when I think so much about it that I can't sleep properly for weeks, and sometimes, oftentimes, it bleeds into my dreams and I wake up utterly exhausted, and put on my game face for another day.

Perhaps this time next year I will be far more settled in my mind, or maybe I would have lived with my fears long enough to have learned to ignore them.

The 80s Post

2009-12-18T22:42:00.003+08:00

I was born in the 70s and I grew up in the 80s. Having done so I now feel very strongly that the 90s and the 2000s were not very exciting in comparison. Particularly when it comes to the clothes.

We had an office party the other day, and it was themed. This is the first time in my life I'm attending an office party that has a theme AND a possibility that people might actually adhere to the theme. The theme was "the 80s". Having just started work in this office, I thought I could lie low, stay under the radar and show up sans fancy dress but after the 5th person asked me what I was going to wear, and after I discovered that my room mate had already ordered not one, but two costumes for this party, I realised I might actually have to put on my game face.

So The Husband obligingly googles a bunch of web pages with people wearing clothing from the 80s. I have to say it was a real blast from the past. We went through page after page of material and there was just so much out there beyond Bananarama and the A-Team that I was dazzled. I forgot how much fun it was to get dressed when I was a teenager. Who could forget the ever-present denim jacket? And the leg-warmers with the faux aerobic gear. Awesome stuff!!

In the end, we knocked it down to:

- a big thick hairband with a chunky ribbon at the side

- a "The Smiths" T-shirt

- a ripped denim skirt

- fluorescent socks

- white canvass sneakers

Having made these rather difficult decisions, I opened my wardrobe, pulled out all the items in question and put them in a little bag to bring to work.

Local Girl Becomes One With Her Apple

2009-12-14T14:48:00.002+08:00

So it's the first day for the Smoot in the new office and, through a series of circumstances too long-winded to get into, also the first day in a new organisation. I am one of the new kids in the playground, and I hope to make some friends soon.

It was a bit of a shocker to arrive this morning at my new desk, still strewn with unpacked and unsorted debris from my previous office, to find an apple sitting uncomfortably in the middle of the whole mess. I didn't know who to thank for it, so I thanked no one. Sometime during the office orientation exercise that followed, I was informed that everyone in the office gets a fruit on Monday for their private consumption, so that we can all be shiny happy people together. Another part of the office orientation exercise instructed us on what to do if the apple is still sitting on our desk uneaten at close of business on Monday - clearly not a happy scenario for the apple or the apowner of the apple. So it is with some reluctance and not a little bit of fear that I am now in the process of consuming my apple, having had the unmitigated temerity to wait until half the day had passed.

I now recall with even further trepidation another part of the induction process where we were clearly told not to eat at our desks, which means that my current attempt to follow one office rule has led to my flagrant breach of another one.

Plus I just dropped the apple on the floor dammit

Smoot Phase Shift

2009-12-12T09:29:00.002+08:00

It's not a good thing to dislike moving office. Not only because it adds to the list of my dislikes, but also because it seems to happen to me more often because I dislike it.

I'm moving office for the 3rd time in 5 years, and for the 4th time in 6 years. For all intents and purposes, it looks like I'm some kind of big time job-hopper, but as I keep telling my mother, I still work for the same company and the same boss - I just get shifted around a lot. And no, we are not evading the authorities.

Movers have just arrived!! Time to get my ass off my seat!!

You did what

2009-11-23T14:57:00.002+08:00

I get a huge amount of grief from my ability to remember numbers, which has a very bad knock-on effect on my ability to remember birthdays, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before I forgot my own birthday.

So it's a good thing The Husband reminded me last evening. I can't imagine the internal discussion that would have transpired if I suddenly remembered my own birthday days/ weeks after it had passed. How long would I hold the grudge against myself?

I suppose as we get older, birthdays become less important and this process becomes accelerated if we are not really a party animal. I do also have a phobia of organising parties but that's just another tragic story for another time. Anyway, it does not impact my ability to attend and/or crash another person's party (she said, quickly).

It appears I'm not the only one to forget my birthday since my employer has also taken the liberty of organising a client lunch for me on that date. In passive-aggressive style, I asked my boss if the client lunch was just a cover story for my surprise birthday party. No, it isn't, he said, after he called to congratulate me on finally reaching the ripe old age of 27.

But do I get to choose the restaurant? I said, determined to salvage something out of a bad situation.

Er no, said he. The client will pick.

Fun With Atichyphobia

2009-11-16T23:30:00.002+08:00

No, I didn't catch something from eating unpasteurised cheese, I'm just trying to rationalise my Fear of Poverty And Failure ("FOPF").

It's becoming both a cliche and a truism, in my view, that the FOPF in a person is proportional to their grades in school. Better grades, more FOPF. Worse grades, less FOPF. Except maybe for me, my grades were fairly mediocre once I discovered boys but my FOPF factor is and has always been really really OTT.

Especially now when I'm at a bit of a crossroad situation and trying to figure things out. How much does a person need to think before they make a decision? And is this before or after their head explodes. I have always faulted myself for not thinking hard enough before I reach a business decision - this time I'm really trying to make a decision only after seeing the pros and cons from every single angle, and even then I wonder.

Decision A - means I will have to, for once, take some fairly substantial risks financially.

Decision B - no financial risk, but it comes with its own cons too.

But the biggest thing about Decision A, she said, finally getting to the point, is that I have to inform my mother that I'm making Decision A. I will have to take the risk that she will look at me and the expression on her face will read something between horror and disappointment. Or rather, she will be squarely in horror territory, but within 100metres of reaching disappointment and finding a place for long-term parking. Shortly thereafter, all the relatives on my mother's side would be informed through a series of hysterical phone calls, and within a day or two, I will get a call from one of my favorite aunts, asking in sad haunted tones if I will be able to make ends meet and do I need any money to buy food for the children.

All my life I have felt like failure was not an option, and that, whilst a certain sibling of mine is free to walk the earth unemployed, shirtless and unshaven, unencumbered by pride or responsibility, it would be a grave disappointment to my mother if I should fail to show a stellar performance in anything I should try my hand at. In response, I severely limit the number of things I try my hand at that she knows about. Anyone who's played pool with me would suspect I might have some issues - I treat every shot like the fate of the free world hangs in the balance.

I think about passing these values on to my children and I weigh the pros and cons. FOPF means they will, by default, end up reasonably successful having taken minimal financial risks and always career planning. Plodding along, working hard, doing reasonably well and being comfortable. They would also be pretty good at pool. No FOPF could mean crashing failure at some point(s), and if we look at real life examples within the family tree, a permanent establishment in the parental home with a mother who will chop his vegetables in teeny tiny little pieces so that her 34 year old son will not have to chew too much.

Is it all in my mind? I don't think so. We were not created equal, my siblings and I. Some of us are not given the option of failure, some of us are allowed to fail. And whilst I don't spend much time wondering what people think of me generally, I look around me during family reunions and all I see are mirrors.

Time of the Season

2009-11-12T11:12:00.002+08:00

So it's that time of the year again for parent-teacher meetings. I just attended 2 yesterday, one of which was, to my horror, conducted in Chinese. It is a constant embarrassment to me that The Son's Chinese language abilities may already have surpassed my own and that, with every new Chinese word he learns, another one slips from my memory.

In effort to spare The Son the torture of going through 12 years of mediocre grades in his Chinese classes, we have enrolled him in not one, but two, Chinese language tuition courses. Having done this, I suppose it would only be natural and expected for us to receive, at the end of each term, 2 progress reports for The Son but what I certainly did not expect was for both of them to be written in Chinese. Not the simple stuff that The Son has been learning, but of the standard that one would expect to find in Lianhe Zaobao.

Do the teachers not know their audience??? The type of parent that would send their child to a Chinese tuition centre would be unlikely to be conversant, or even have a passing acquaintance, with the Chinese language. I have passed the reports to a friend to translate for me - she has a great laugh at my expense every time I do this, but how else am I going to understand what the progress is.

At yesterday's meeting with the Chinese teacher, she passed me the report and waited expectantly for me to read it so that we could discuss any questions I had. She watched my finger crawl laboriously under each word for about 2 minutes as I tried my damndest to pronounce each word under my breath. We got past the second sentence before I gave up. I had a nightmare flashback to my last Chinese oral examination.

I wonder what she thought when, whilst writing The Son's Chinese name at the back of the cheque for the term fees, she saw me surreptitiously referring to the Chinese characters of his name written at the top of his progress report. I'm told that I'm not alone in this - a friend told me once that he was in the process of writing his son's Chinese name down for school registration when he realised that he had forgotten how to write 2 out of the 3 characters and had to take the form home.

In other news, The Son and I checked out the rather intriguing Body Works Exhibition at the Science Centre recently. We encircled the various displays of preserved human bodies while The Son clung to me and asked me whether "Daddy will grow old" and "Will Daddy die". He did not enquire after my mortality. In my typical motherly passive-aggressive style, I informed him that everybody dies. Daddy, mommy, even our dog, will eventually die. This may take a long time, but everybody dies. No one is spared.

At one point, we found ourselves staring at a display of a male carcass sitting on a carriage drawn by 2 skinned deer in mid-gallop. The Son points at the man and his question carries across the room: "DID SANTA DIE???"

Pretty Fly for a Shy Girl

2009-10-20T12:24:00.003+08:00

I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever be rid of this damn shyness problem. Shyness isn't a disease, there's no cure and as an evolutionary tool, it's the equivalent of an appendix. We don't need it, we don't want it, but for some of us, we're stuck with it. And it's inoperable.

For me, it's the prospect of meeting new people, as completely ridiculous as it sounds given my chosen profession. I used to have a problem meeting new people at all. I can still remember a client lunch when I was too shy to speak (but not too shy to eat). Now I can manage meeting one batch of clients at a time. Have been fine for some time now, and I do actually enjoy it. But networking is the absolute bane of my existence and, as I recently discovered, the prospect of spending 2 days at an internal networking conference will give me an asthma attack. Actually, 2 asthma attacks - one for each day.

I realised I was shy on the first day of my Primary One education. I was heading home with my Grandfather, and I could see from a distance that someone I had just met was about to pass my way. What do I do? What do I say? Do I make eye contact? When do I make eye contact? Do I smile? When do I smile? What kind of smile? Do I stop and chat? What if I don't? Would that be rude?

When she passed by, I was frantically digging in my bag for an imaginary book. I just couldn't go through with it.

About 8 years ago, I came up with what I thought was an amazing solution for the shyness problem, which was speaking at seminars. About 50 or so seminars later, I am dismayed to find that the shyness problem is cured - but only for when I speak at seminars. There is still an unholy dread of networking in any shape, size or form. I can see myself now at the pearly gates of heaven, cringing and wheezing at the thought of having to network with all these dead relatives. Or I could just find myself in hell, with my aunt, and no networking issues at all.

Recently, after a sleepless night, I realised the shyness issue also extends to the blog, which means that it is reaching critical proportions indeed. I go through the same series of reactions when I'm trying to respond to a comment on this blog, which could explain why I'm such a total sloth when it comes to responding to comments. It's not that I do not respond. I just do not publish the response. I am delighted and overwhelmed when I get a comment. Usually it makes my day to think that people might read the stuff I type out. Then I think of a response. Then I type it, then edit, then redact, then retype, then edit and then delete it in frustration because I don't think it will be good enough to publish. Then I spend sleepless nights agonizing and wondering if people think I'm too stuck up to respond to their comment.

Will there ever be a cure for shyness? Desperate people want to know. One hopes there will be a solution other than attending 50 networking events.

Not a Food Blog

2009-10-19T13:00:00.002+08:00

So maternity leave has been wonderful and it has really allowed me to focus on The Kids. It also saves a heap of cash to eat at home all the time.

Then one day my Rather Cool Cousin calls me up to say that Damien de Silva has kindly agreed to cook a special dinner for 10 persons for the price of S$x, x being less than 100. It will be 2 appetizers, 2 mains and 1 dessert. This is Damien de Silva aka Soul Kitchen, who knows me as Tagliatelle Ragu girl, and who now owns and runs Big D's Grill out of a coffee shop at Block 46 Holland Drive. And by 'coffee shop', I don't mean a Starbucks. It's an old skool coffee shop without any airconditioning. It is a testament to Damien's amazing food that his cult following of foodies will follow him literally to the ends of the earth, because that's exactly where he has chosen to set up his stall this time.

I don't say no to this. I mean, if God descended from Heaven in a chariot bearing his own barbeque sauce and offered to cook dinner for you, would you refuse? Instead I show up hungry, child-free and only 10 minutes late, which is a personal record for me. And I feast.

As this is not a food blog, there will be no pictures of the food, and also not much description of the food but suffice to say that I just ate the remainders of the duck confit 5 days after it was originally served and it still tasted toe-curlingly good. And I don't even like duck confit. It's always stringy and chewy and reminds me that birds raised for food should not be permitted to attend aerobics classes twice a week. Damien made it so tender that the meat fell off the bone, and I have been pulling off bits and pieces of it for the last 2 days to mash into The Son's porridge.

I hope he does this again, and soon.

In other news, The Daughter is serving out her 3rd month of babyhood and is getting a little bit fat. Before I had her, I used to long for a great fat baby with deep fat creases on her neck, arms and legs. And now I have one! And boy is it difficult to keep the fat creases clean on the inside. They require cleaning about 3 times a day otherwise she's one big fat smelly rash. According to Grandma, she looks just like me when I was a baby, but much, much fatter. Apparently I was past full term (slightly late in arriving, as always) but skinny.

Finally, and I have to note this down at the expense of sounding like a woman obsessed with her own children, The Son had another epiphany this morning. He buckled his sister into the swing and in so doing pinched his index finger. I gave him the usual spiel about how he needs to be careful otherwise he will hurt himself doing all these things and everyone will be sad.

Small boys are tough, mama, he said. Much tougher than big people and babies. You always say that this will hurt me a lot but it only hurt a little. I'm tough. Tougher than big people and babies. RIGHT?

Snippets

2009-09-02T20:37:00.002+08:00

When I was about ... 24 and going through an extremely painful breakup (having just experienced the joy of being dumped) I prayed constantly for about 6 months for "inner peace". Well, I've certainly found it now.

Inner peace is when both children are finally asleep.

Possibly because I am married and out of the market, and further possibly because I now have kids (and could possibly no longer be a virgin), my male friends have started to confide in me. It is a disturbing trend, because after years of hearing bullshit ("we usually talk a lot more about sports"), I am finally getting to hear what guys really really talk about when there are no women around.

Male Friend No. 1, whilst I was hoeing into a nice juicy wedge of Hawaiian pizza and only half-listening:

"I'll be the first to admit it - my penis is extremely short. But it's also extremely thick, and that's what makes the girls so happy." At that moment, I happened to glance at the tiny little salt and pepper shakers on the table and managed to say mm-hmm mm-hmm. My hyperactive imagination, eager as ever to help out with the illustrations, showed me a picture of a flesh-coloured cha siew pao.

[I asked him if I could ever put this discussion in an electronic medium and he said yes he has no detractors, only satisfied customers.]

Friend no. 2, on the phone:

So how should I react if, after having sex for the first time with this girl, she asks me if we could try a threesome next time. Does this mean she had a bad time with me and next time I should bring reinforcements?

No dude. If a girl has a bad time, you can rest assured that none of her future plans extending beyond the next hour would involve you. At this point, if she could make you disappear, you'd already be gone. And she wouldn't be asking after your friends. Clearly you have ventured into a rarified zone with this girl where she doesn't want to be your friend, she doesn't want any kind of long-term relationship with you, she just wants a Weinerslave.

[Clearly, also, I live vicariously through friend no. 2.]

Friend no. 3, also on the phone:

So I went to KL with 2 other guys and we hooked up with this girl who wants to try a group thing. She's small but extremely enthusiastic. I'm just watching the action from the side when one of the guys asks me to join in. Join in where? I asked. There's no space!! Between the 2 of you, I can hardly see her!!

[Given my rather uptight attitude towards these issues, it took me 2 hours to find that funny.]

But anyway, I might sound like I'm complaining but secretly I am so pleased to have finally been allowed into the inner circle (of a man's mind). It might be in need of a little cleaning but it sure beats a discussion about sports. Nobody has ever confided in me about sports before.

Now that I'm no longer pregnant, I do miss the little pregnancy jokes.

1. Pregnant friend and pregnant me in a crowded lift full of strangers. I looked over at her and asked "do you know who the father is yet?"

"I just found out," she replies. "Now I'm trying to get him to admit that it's his."

2. Pregnant me and The Son accompany a single girlfriend who's getting married to a bridal boutique. Salesgirl comes up to us and asks "so... who's the bride?"

"Me me me!!" I wanted to say. "He finally said yes!! I'm so happy!!"

Great Expectations

2009-08-12T18:09:00.002+08:00

It is with great pleasure and relief that we announce the long awaited arrival of Chicken No. 2. She arrived on a Saturday night, exactly on her forecasted birth date, and I'm still trying to remember what it was they said about Saturday's child.

One thing we do know - she has got mad screaming skillz. I feel like we have a new pet in the house. A new angry red screaming pet. I can hear the neighbours shutting their windows whenever she starts up. I'm surprised we haven't heard from them yet.

This one was fed a very very Omega-3 rich diet, whereas for Chicken No. 1, I had no clue about Omega-3 so he had none. We are watching to see if it made a difference. I think a thousand bucks worth of Omega-3 tablets went into Chicken No. 2, plus another truckload of vitamins B, C, D, iron, calcium and I can't remember what else. I was taking pills and supplements all day with this one. She weighed 4.05kg at birth, and was the heavyweight champion in the ward. No. 1 weighed 2.92kg. He was the lightest baby they had in the ward for the few days we stayed in the hospital.

Also, for no. 1, we read not a single childcare book, so basically everything he did was completely unexpected and a wonder to us all. Omigod he just filled up his little diaper, we would say in awe. We had no standards for him whatsoever. But for no. 2, I have bought a grand total of 2 books on babies and so we will actually have a clue this time around. One of them actually has a "crying" analysis, so that we can interpret what she's screaming about. So far it's been very accurate. But then again, she's usually hungry. It's not like she's asking to borrow the car or anything.

I recently discovered by accident that men have an extremely rosy impression of breastfeeding class. A sea of boobs and half naked women expressing milk in a semi-erotic fashion, is what I understand they think it is. In reality, it is a sea of boobs, but from a motley crew of wan looking no-makeup extremely exhausted women who all sit very gingerly (stitches) and who still look pregnant despite the fact that each one is carrying a small red infant. One class attendee was so dazed that she didn't realise the class was BYOB (bring your own baby) and showed up alone. Another class attendee didn't realise that you are not expected to whip off your shirt and sit there topless in front of God and everybody (she must have arrived first). The rest of us just adjusted our clothing to show as little as possible and tried not to stare at each other's boobs as the instructor walked around grabbing and squeezing to ensure milk flow. It's not exactly a Victoria's Secret moment.

In other news, it sure is good to be holding a new baby.

Great Speeches and Soliloquys from the Peanut Gallery

2009-07-31T13:13:00.002+08:00

I don't know if it's typical for 4 year old boys to get a little bit long-winded, but The Son has certainly headed off in that direction. Over the last 6 months, we have noticed an marked increase in the melodrama department, something my husband refers to as "chewing the scenery".

A couple of weekends ago, he let loose a really long soliloquy at Parkway Parade which, if he had not been leaning a little bit too close to the dustbin and standing at barely 2/3 of my height, I might have been tempted to take seriously. It started with a trip to Parkway Parade on Saturday morning, and I briefed him beforehand on the trip agenda, basically we would attend at Parkway Parade for the purpose of depositing a cheque, eating and drinking store-bought foods and, at some point, spending some quality time at the arcade (Timezone).

So naturally he was keen, and also naturally, when we arrived at Parkway Parade, I prioritized all my stuff first, which meant that 4 hours later, we would still be sitting at Dome's while I enjoyed a burger and an iced coffee with ice cream and he had a choc milk-shake. Then The Mother calls to say she will pick us up half an hour early, and could we please report to the taxi stand immediately, so that she knows which building is Parkway Parade by the 2 small people standing in front of it.

When The Son got wind of the fact that his arcade trip was cancelled, he was extremely displeased and spake forth in a voice most dissatisfied. I informed him that it was understandable that he might be a little bit upset about the situation, but (burp) hey we can't always get what we want all the time, and there's always next time, so please get a grip on yourself and calm down.

At this point, he got a little bit shrill.

"Actually I'm not very happy with you. You are not saying it properly. I am not abit upset! Actually I am very upset! You said we are going to the arcade! Then you went to eat your food for so long! And you asked me to be patient. Now we are going to Grandma's house. I want to go to the arcade now!

(Then he looks around, shifts tactics) Where is Grandma? She's not here yet. Can we go to the arcade for a short while until she gets here? We are just waiting, Mama. Can we just go? I have been very patient with you, you know." Then he fixes me with a look that could bend spoons.

Jesus Christ. If he's like this now, what should we be expecting next year? Why can't he be like other little boys and just run around screaming in circles?

________________________________________________________

In other news, I recently inspected the rather amazing collection of books at E@L's residence and it is truly a wonder to behold the depth and range of his casual reading material.

You should have seen the look on his face when I turned around to ask "Hey, do you have any Grisham or Stephen King in here?" It was awesome. The Husband cringed and averted his eyes ("I can't believe it's not margarine!").

Local Woman Finds Out The Hard Way That Beer Gives False Results in Pregnancy Test

2009-07-29T15:04:00.003+08:00

... ... "her tummy just grew and grew and everyone thought she was pregnant but in fact it was just a huge beer belly. And she and her beer belly lived unhappily ever after. The End."

I'm starting to wonder if it's not just an urban legend after all. Maybe I shouldn't have downed that keg last November before peeing on a stick. Yes, that might have been an ill advised move.

Am now heading to the Durian Durian Cafe to drown my sorrows. I really do spend my money on stupid stuff. Wonder if I can find a taxi who will drive me home after that, especially if I'm carrying leftovers. Will probably have to rely on my "sad pregnant woman by the side of the road who needs transport" routine. While stocks last!

I feel homicidal, and other sad tales

2009-07-28T11:42:00.002+08:00

Sometimes when I go to the pregnancy websites on the Internet it occurs to me that both the people who write them, as well as the people who comment on them, could possibly be helping themselves to the epidural and the laughing gas as they type. Everyone is so freaking happy. I feel elated! I feel overjoyed!

I feel homicidal!

There is NO comfortable sleeping position left. It's like trying to make a crane (machine, not bird) lie down on its back or sideways and get a good night's rest. There's always that something extra sticking up in the air. Also, although I wonder how is this even possible, my maternity clothes don't fit anymore! (!!!!) There should be a law against this. How can the maternity clothes not fit at the point in time when you need them the most. I have this one black Thyme top that still fits, only because it's really really stretchy. Then I have these (non-maternity) pants from Mumbai, where the elastic snapped some weeks ago and those still fit. Apart from that, nothing fits anymore, and by nothing, I mean really really nothing.

Even the Incredible Hulk's pants still fit him when he turns green and rips his shirt and shoes. Where did he get those pants, I'd like to know. They look pretty comfortable too. I just feel like I've been cut in half when I put on anything, skirt, pants, you name it.

Generally and specifically, I'm happy about the baby. I just wish she would make an appearance. We are in Week 40 now, and it is High Time that Madam showed up. Her brother made an early appearance at 36.5 weeks and by the time we reached Week 40, he was practically painting the town red with shopping and house-hunting so she's really missing out on some good stuff here. I mean, a durian cafe just opened right next to my house!

In other news, I finally got my refund for overpayment of hospital bills. I have to remind myself that this is a refund, it's not a windfall, so no need to be so happy. Unfortunately for some complete stranger out there, the hospital also enclosed some other woman's itemised tax invoice for her IVF treatment, which I went through in detail before I realised it was not mine. And then after I realised it was not mine, I really went through that thing with a fine tooth comb. Did you know the groundsheet costs S$16? It's the giant napkin the hospital puts under every pregnant woman's ass so that she doesn't leak fluid onto the hospital bed. It's a PAPER NAPKIN. Also, at one point, they touched her with a pair of powderless gloves. That was S$6.

I'm going to bring a towel and some oven mittens. Also a box of tissues (that costs S$3 or something if you get it from the hospital).

Local Woman's Attempt to Use Murphy's Law to Deliver Baby Not Exactly Working Out

2009-07-09T11:04:00.002+08:00

About 9 months ago I wrote about how to harness the power of Murphy's Law to get pregnant, covering the various experiences of some girlfriends.

It occurred to me last weekend I could try to deliver on time using the same method, rather than just sitting around like a hippo gaining 30 - 40 grams a day like I'm currently doing. Perhaps I could get myself into a situation where Murphy's Law would require the waterbag to burst somehow, at the most inappropriate or potentially embarrassing time.

So The Son and I got on the Duckboat for a 45 minute tour of the various construction sites at the Marina waterfront. 50 minutes and S$35 later, we got off the Duckboat, contraction free, water bag still intact. I thought about the Singapore Flyer but that's another S$35 for only 30 minutes. Perhaps we should embark on a 10-day cruise?
____________________________________________

We got the best idea ever after someone rear-ended our (stationery) car 2 days ago. HAVE NO CAR. Better still, send the car to some shyster workshop so that I will have the benefit of the additional stress of GETTING ROYALLY SCREWED WHILST HAVING NO CAR.

I didn't exactly understand what the fuss in the papers about motor workshops was all about, nor the public outrage about the shady dealings of motor workshops, until I read the shyster workshop's papers which they asked me to sign, which explains everything so nicely.

In it I am asked to (and I don't even need to paraphrase this at all) authorise the workshop to:

1. negotiate a settlement with the third party who rear-ended our car as they deem fit;
2. instruct solicitors on my behalf; and
3. appoint a vehicle surveyor on my behalf,

and at my expense.

I also confirm that I only wish to be informed of my case when they are major developments like court attendances and affidavits.

I authorise the car workshop to receive and keep all settlement monies. But if the claim is unsuccessful, I will pay costs incurred by the motor workshop and the opposing party, including legal costs on a full indemnity basis.

I also confirm by signature (in advance!) that I have collected my vehicle and all repairs are satisfactory.

IN EXCHANGE FOR ALL THIS, I get my repairs done.

This, I am being asked to sign, first thing on a Thursday morning. I called a friend who is in this business. He said, did you take a photo of your car before you handed it over. No? Well then they will have a grand old time with the repairs, rack up the bill, the other motorist's insurer could reject the claim and you would end up having to pay the motor workshop, the surveyor and the lawyer out of pocket. Dincha know? Dumbass?

I called the shyster workshop. I want my car back, said I. I don't want you to repair it. We will return the replacement car. Or, I can work with you if you first get me the surveyor's report about the cost of repairs.

But why, they asked. Your husband already agreed to everything yesterday. Also, you must pay us S$80 for the use of the replacement car for 1 day. It will take a month to complete the survey, so you will have to wait. [I'm not a master of the English language myself, but isn't the word "survey" derived from the word "see"? How does it take 1 month to look at the back of my car and write down "replacement of boot door and bumper - S$___". Is the surveyor slowly regaining his eyesight after a terrible accident? Does he need to write the report in all known languages? And in blood? Has my car been moved to Bahrain and he has to walk there? How does it take 1 month to complete a survey?]

So I called the other driver, suggested that perhaps her insurer was the best one to call upon to recommend a workshop. She agreed. I called her insurer. They asked me to ask my own insurer for a recommendation instead, then file a claim.

BUT I DID, said I. We did all the paperwork and went to their recommended workshop, and this is the result. Give me a workshop that YOU trust.

No. Call your own insurer and get onto another workshop. Maybe the next one will be better. We only process claims, which means you have to get the car fixed first.

I wish I had that kind of faith in human nature.

So I called my own insurer and told them what happened. They said if you want to make a complaint about our authorised workshops, you'll have to write in. That's when I finally exploded.

I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR AUTHORISED WORKSHOP. I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY CAR. IF YOUR WORKSHOP IS SCAMMING PEOPLE LIKE THIS, THAT'S NOT MY PROBLEM, THAT'S. YOUR. FUCKING. PROBLEM.

Ok, I didn't say the expletive, but I THOUGHT IT VERY LOUDLY IN MY HEAD. That'll show 'em.

The result of that is, I got put on hold for 5 minutes, after which the guy came back and said someone else will call me back sometime today to, like, discuss or whatever. I thought the insurance company would be just a little bit concerned about something like this happening in their own back yard but I could be wrong.

Still no contractions.

Local Woman's Second Attempt to Deliver Baby Coincides with Small Boy's Second Attempt to Watch Anaconda without Falling Asleep

2009-07-07T12:32:00.002+08:00

Needless to say both attempts have not been successful.

I really need to ask the good people at Mt Elizabeth Hospital if I qualify for frequent flier miles at the labour ward. God knows I've paid enough for them.

For those of us fortunate enough to deliver during the first visit, you may wish to know that all failed visits are paid for at full price. So whether or not the baby comes out, we still need to pay full price. There is no discount for embarrassment or failure to pop.

And to add insult to injury, the TV channels available in the labour ward are really really limited, unless you are looking for the Arab channels.

Also, have I already mentioned this - there is NO wireless internet access in the labour ward. Because, as the nurse so succinctly put it, people who come here usually don't need it. Well, missy, just because I can't balance a laptop on my tummy anymore doesn't mean I don't need one. In the end, I had to displace a nurse from her seat behind the counter so that I could send out a work email with an attachment.
__________________________________________

Following the latest failed visit to the labour ward, I was asked to go home and wait for the contractions to come every 5 minutes, as opposed to every 15 minutes, before returning. Easier said than done. Since then, and it's been a week, I've gone off my 'prevent labour' medication, gone off the 'prevent labour' special diet and gone on a free for all milkshake, durian, ice cream and sweets binge over the last 5 days.

And the contractions have stopped.

Oh shit

2009-06-30T11:53:00.001+08:00

Twenty Questions: How Do I Know If I'm A Workaholic?

Do you get more excited about your work than about family or anything else?
Are there times when you can charge through your work and other times when you can't?
Do you take work with you to bed? On weekends? On vacation?
Is work the activity you like to do best and talk about most?
Do you work more than 40 hours a week?
Do you turn your hobbies into money-making ventures?
Do you take complete responsibility for the outcome of your work efforts?
Have your family or friends given up expecting you on time?
Do you take on extra work because you are concerned that it won't otherwise get done?
Do you underestimate how long a project will take and then rush to complete it?
Do you believe that it is okay to work long hours if you love what you are doing?
Do you get impatient with people who have other priorities besides work?
Are you afraid that if you don't work hard you will lose your job or be a failure?
Is the future a constant worry for you even when things are going very well?
Do you do things energetically and competitively including play?
Do you get irritated when people ask you to stop doing your work in order to do something else?
Have your long hours hurt your family or other relationships?
Do you think about your work while driving, falling asleep or when others are talking?
Do you work or read during meals?
Do you believe that more money will solve the other problems in your life?

Oh glumness

2009-06-16T11:04:00.003+08:00

I'm not cut out for working from home. Away from the constant mental stimulation of the office and all my stationery, I am bereft, isolated and depressed. But the house arrest orders have been extended and here I stay.

The dietary restrictions have also been extended and clarified (who knew that cranberries in Singapore have sugar added to them??) and I have done my level best to educate those members of my family who bring me food out of the kindness of their heart but my mother probably needs a little bit more explaining time.

I cannot eat carbs or sugary foods, I tell her. I will go into premature labour.

Ok, says she. Here are 2 boxes of durians (very expensive you know. You better finish!) and a slice of home-made cheesecake. You better try, otherwise Melvin (long-suffering housekeeper) will be upset. Do you want some mangoes? From the market. They are very sweet. Are you eating at my house for dinner? We have seafood pasta.

Now everything in the fridge smells of durian. According to The Husband, so does the stuff in the freezer. In fact, my durian is making our neighbour cough and sneeze. If I were at all concerned about public health and safety, I should bring the durian downstairs and eat it by the pool, late at night, when there's no one around.

In other news, I received the amazing gift of a 3D ultrasound from Expat@Large yesterday, for which we are deeply, profoundly grateful. The images are AMAZING. He captured an eye moving and a smile!!! A SMILE!!!! Babies smile in the womb!!! Oh my God!!

He also captured a great shot of the baby grabbing and squeezing her umbilical cord like her brother grabs and squeezes his ... Play-Doh. Not a well advised move. Just as I was commenting on exactly how ill advised it is to abuse something you depend entirely upon for your continued existence, I saw her smooshing the placenta with her forehead. The placenta. That's great. Then when I thought she couldn't do anything worse, she puts the umbilical cord in her mouth and starts gnawing on it. Now there's a prime candidate for premature delivery.

Her brother was so calm and collected during his 36.5 week stay. The most he ever did was hiccup and give me Braxton-Hicks contractions during American Idol. Her hiccups are twice the frequency of his, and she manages to flip and flop around in there like 2 puppies fighting. I'm almost completely certain that she has also managed to get hold of a sharp instrument that she's using to stab my kidneys with. 2 days ago, my belly-button, which inverted itself very early in the pregnancy, suddenly extruded another 1.5 centimetres because of a small unknown bony appendage (knee? elbow? big toe?) that had found its way just under it. I almost fainted. It's just a thin layer of skin there with no muscle underneath. If she pushes any harder, she could be the first baby to perform her own Caesarean.

Golden Goose under House Arrest

2009-05-31T12:46:00.002+08:00

So apparantly an excess of carbohydrates, stress and goodness knows what else can increase the risk of premature labour.

According to The Gynae, I hafta go home and lie down. For 2 weeks. Otherwise the new chicken will hatch. I think the whole lying down deal was great for about 15 minutes, after which I started to go quietly, and then noisily, insane. And that was the easy part. The hard part is the new diet.

When it comes to the new diet, The Gynae is Hard Core. Rather than to waste half an hour telling me what I can't eat, she decided it was easier to spend 30 seconds telling me what I can.

Brown rice
Brown spaghetti
Brown bread
Meat
Vegetables
Eggs
Almonds
Apples
Berries

As she rattled off this very short and depressing list, I heard her say the magic word chocolate.

What was that you said -chocolate?

Yes. Chocolate. You can have none.

I didn't find that funny at all, and neither did she. I guess you could say that consult ended on a rather grim note. I left, holding my very short list, medical certificate and a sack of medication.

How come all my guests want to check out early? I asked The Husband when he came to pick me up. The Son checked out a little early too, four years ago, just not this early.

I think it's because they don't like the food, said our resident comedian. All the entrees come with 5 desserts.

While it can be said that I did develop a sweet tooth during this pregnancy and the last one, I still believe there is nothing wrong with finishing 2 cakes every 3 or 4 days. Especially when they're chiffon cakes, which are mostly air. After all, air is calorie-free. I had originally planned to buy and eat an Awfully Chocolate plain chocolate cake after my visit to The Gynae, but I guess this will have to be postponed. It does not help that The Mother's idea of a snack for me during a long car trip is an entire pandan chiffon cake.

Spoke with The Mother on the phone today, meaning to tell her about the medical leave/ premature labour situation but somehow the conversation was misdirected to a request for additional blank cheques and how much is in your bank account now.

But I haven't been to work for the last week, as I have been on medical leave, said the Golden Goose.

Oh. Well, have you banked in your paycheque or not?

I have not. DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I HAVE NOT BEEN TO WORK FOR THE LAST WEEK? bellowed the Golden Goose.

Errr.. ok. Why haven't you been to work for the last week, she finally asks.

As The Husband likes to say, the milk of human kindness flows through my family like bean curd.

And Now There Are Seven

2009-05-26T10:14:00.002+08:00

A coupla weeks ago, The Son went on a school excursion to the Pasir Ris Kid's Kampong for which I had to pay S$15 and sign a consent form. Which is fine, except that nowhere in the consent form did I consent to him bringing home a bunch of pet fish in a tiny little bucket with his name on it. It's all very cute and everything, WHEN THAT HAPPENS TO SOMEONE ELSE. I am less than charmed when it happens to me and my kitchen.

Anyway, to cut a long and tedious story short, we had what appeared to be 6 live fish and 1 dead fish by the time I got home from work. 2 of the live fish were not actually in the bucket at that point - one of them was on the coffee table and another one was writhing on the floor ("MAMA !! LOOK!!") and about to be eaten by The Dog.

By the time the fambly woke up the next morning, there were 6 dead fish and 1 live fish ("Survivor Fish").

We waited patiently for Survivor Fish to pass on like his bethren. He was not fed, as the fish did not come with any fish food. Yet stupid Survivor Fish survived for another 16 days. Then finally, The Husband made a unilateral decision, completely bereft of any spousal support or encouragement, TO BUY A FISH TANK AND FISH FOOD. I think the last thing I said to him about this issue is why can't you put Survivor Fish into that big vase instead. No need to buy a tank.

If I had known this was going to happen, Survivor Fish would have relocated to the sewer or the chute 15 days ago. Now, instead of having no pet fish, we have another 6 new fish, 1 fish tank, 1 fish tank cleaner, 1 fish tank aerator, 1 fake aquarium plant and 1 real aquarium plant. And of course, we have Survivor Fish and fish food. I'm tired of typing the word "fish".

Of course now that we have spent money on all of this, I'm almost completely certain that all the fish will die tomorrow leaving us with yet another item to gather dust in the house.

Local Boy Enraged By Own Speech Impediments

2009-05-25T15:56:00.002+08:00

The Son has grown from a baby capable of only mumbling the last syllable of only a few words, to a toddler with an awesomely adorable inability to pronounce "l", "th" and various other alphabits, to a little boy who can pronounce everything except "th" ("ss") and "security guard" ("sekittery gard").

So "with" becomes "wiss" and so on. I find it screamingly cute. In fact, The Husband and I have found all his speech impediments so screamingly cute that we have adopted them in our own speech. It drives The Son screamingly batshit.

So the other day when I said the taxi would be picking us up from the "yobby", he was at great pains to correct me.

"LLLLLobby, mama. It's LLLLLLLLobby".

That's what I said, Son. Yobby.

LLLLLLLLobby. It's not yobby. It's LLLLLLLOOOBBBBEEEEEE

Yobby. Oh! Yook is that a yadder?

*shrieks from the peanut gallery*

In other news, the answer to the question: "how hard can it be to find a lawyer who can sit in for 4 months to replace me while I am on maternity leave" is "very very hard". I'm sure I cannot be the only person on the planet who has to deal with this issue - how come it is so difficult?

CALVIN COME HOME PLEASE

I've never had a dress named after me until now, and now I want to see it

2009-05-22T10:02:00.002+08:00

Checked out the Pink Frangipani dress shoppe yesterday at lunchtime and found some pretty awesome stuff.

This is Gremlin's (from Gremlink) dream and creation and I had not realised up till then that she designs and names her dresses after her friends and known acquaintances.

I found The Stacie, a rather hawt black chiffon cocktail dress with an extremely flattering bias cut around the waist and hips, and also The Ciara, which is a deep red pleated silk dress, short, but also with a similarly flattering waist and hip cut.

Then Gremlin tells me that there is also The Jennifer, but IT IS SOLD OUT.

Eeeee!!!!!!!! (*flaps hands in front of face like a preteen girl*)

Need. To see. The Jennifer.

This is just (JUST) like Lorac cosmetics, where I found The Lipstick I Had Been Searching For All My Life, where the designer names her lipstick colours after various different famous Hollywood celebrities. OSOM!!!!

So what goes through your mind when you design something and name it after someone, I asked the Gremlin.

Well, I think of what she would most likely be wearing, like her favorite dress or her usual style.

OSOM!!!!

I suspect The Jennifer is probably a very short dress, probably rather low cut, either in the back or the front but not both, very likely in black/ a muted colour or a deep satiny red silk. The last little black dress I wore out to the pub (or, as my mother would say, the nightcrup) was a short black halter dress, so short in fact that I could not use an escalator, only lifts.

Gremlin's stuff is inspiring because it's cocktail dresses, and tops and bottoms designed for professional women in their 30s and beyond, not just for women in their 20s.

What's the difference between these 2 groups? We are not going to Zouk anymore, we're not partying anymore, we are working women and mothers who go to houseparties, work functions, dinners and dances, and other people's wedding dinners. Or sometimes just dinner with the husband and friends at a nice restaurant.

And when we do go, we do not want to have to choose between the evening gown we wore for our wedding x years ago, or the same exhausted black dress we have already been seen in for the last 5 of these occasions, paired with the same exhausted pashmina. We would like, for once, to wear something new, not too tight, not too stretchy, something in a cut that will be kind to the waistline and hips and which will make us look hawt. Something which will not require me to hold my breath when I put it on, and then throughout the rest of the evening until I can sit down somewhere and put a napkin on my lap.

Something that will let me show off the assets I still have and the ones that I acquired after having a kid (more curves) while hiding the extra pounds that I put on in the wrong places after having said kid.

And it's got to be affordable. I'm not paying more than S$280 - 300. I've got to budget for kid stuff.

Also, I don't want the latest bright funky colours. I want the kind of colours I see in Boss (for their women's range), Chanel, LVMH, Celine and Gucci. I want black, silky satiny greys, whites, deep satiny reds that glow and shimmer in dim lighting - and that will not wrinkle if I bring the kid out with me for the dinner.

Is that a tall order? I don't think so. She's come up with just the thing, ensconsced in the 2nd floor of the Windmill Mall at Holland V. And there's an accessories and photoframe shop next door.

Local Woman Forced to Apologise for Misbehaviour in Toddler's Dream

2009-05-18T12:39:00.002+08:00

So I was awakened this morning at the unGodly hour of 6.45am by a little Mickey Mouse voice in my ear.

Mama! Can you please say sorry to me? You have to say sorry.

What?

You took my eggs. In my dream. You took my eggs away.

What?!

I had a bad dream. You took my eggs away. You must say sorry.

Oh. Sorry about that.

I'm still sad.

Sorry. Come, let me give you a hug.

Ok. Can I watch TV now?

*******

In other news, I was reminded the other day of the wonders of modern banking. I waddled into the bank in my full third trimester glory one baking hot afternoon to extract some bank statements and other miscellaneous things, then queued patiently with everyone else till I got to my turn.

Only to be told - I'm sorry you can't get the bank statements here. You have to call our Hotline.

But I'm here, at the branch. Isn't there a way for me to get the statements here? I can wait.

No, we cannot get these for you here. You have to call the Hotline.

Then she paused, as she realised that I was so hot and bothered that I might deliver the baby at the foot of her counter.

In a more concessionary voice, she said, perhaps you can use our phone to call the Hotline. I will dial for you.

Which is fine by me, in terms of service. So I get a nice little booth with a chair and a phone, she dials into the Hotline for me, which is when I discover that bank officers get into the Hotline phone queue just like everyone else. She passes the phone to me, and I spend another five minutes pressing 1, 2, 3, 4 or 0. Finally reach a human and make my request for some bank statements, which must be really quite an unusual one, because I'm told:

Sorry ma'am, we cannot help you. You have to write in.

At that point, a mushroom shaped cloud appeared above my head.

Ok, said I to the poor Hotline person. Here's the situation. I am AT the bank now. They asked me to call the Hotline. I am now on the phone with you, while still AT the bank, and now you are saying that I may have to go back to my office to WRITE IN, to THE BANK. Is this correct? Why do I have to go back to my office to WRITE IN, when I am IN the bank and also ON THE PHONE with the bank's hotline? Can't you take my word for it that I need the statement?

Rage makes me speak in UPPER CASE; I probably sound very Dick and Jane.

In the end, the Hotline spoke with the Bank Officer and between them they made sympathetic noises to each other, and Bank Officer put down the phone before asking me to please write in, as nobody - NOBODY - had the power to process my request at that point without any written authorisation from me. But as a concession to the customer, they would provide me with a piece of blank paper, a pen and a desk from which I could prepare my written authorisation, and thereafter they would fax it out to the right person. I was made to understand that it would take at least 7 working days to process my request. I think this is probably because the relevant department is located 7 leagues below the sea, and since it's monsoon season, it would take a while for the Bank's seamen/ voyagers/ adventurers/ deep sea divers, bearing my handwritten request, to reach them after braving all the sea creatures.

I'm almost completely certain I could have gotten my bank statement faster in the 1920s, when there was no Hotline/ fax/ internet banking, just courier pigeons and morse code. It would also not have cost me S$25 by way of an administration fee.

I really don't know the answer to this one

2009-05-14T12:17:00.003+08:00

So we have an ongoing matter where Person A sold a company to Person B, and just before completion date, Person A withdrew most of the company's money for her own use, much to Person B's dismay and horror. There is now litigation to sort things out.

That's all fairly straightforward, then Person A sends an email to Person B directly (so far, all correspondences have been through the lawyers) to notify Person B that "I am praying for you", and that "God will right all wrongs." Also something about the money she took having been converted to God's use (to build God's kingdom).

Person B, who is of the view that he should have the same recourse to the Lord God as Person A (and maybe more recourse to the same than Person A) sends me an enraged email where he asks how is he going to respond to this.

I've looked up some Bible verses (Google) and I have to say that there is little reference that I can find at short notice to offences involving a criminal breach of trust and the position that God would take in such cases, particularly where He is also implicated.

Perhaps it's just me, but I think there's something truly objectionable when you confront someone who swiped money from you and they say "I passed it to God, perhaps you should ask Him for it".

What happens when you turn right 4 times

2009-04-30T10:58:00.002+08:00

So I have just returned from a recent work trip to Melbourne, and boy was it cold.

It speaks volumes about my sense of direction when I stay in the hotel for 3 days, 2 nights, and only on the last day do I finally figure out that the hotel and the office are in the same building.

And I was wondering why the lifts looked so similar. I had earlier concluded that it must be because the building manager was the same. Ta-da!

So every day, at the end of each day, I would exit the office building, turn right, turn right again, walk maybe 10 metres down the street, turn right and then turn right again, and get into the hotel entrance. Hmm. How come I see so many of my colleagues around the hotel, I would wonder. I thought they were just meeting clients to have coffee or meals.

At the beginning of each day, I would leave the hotel, turn left, turn left again, walk 10 metres up the street, turn left and then turn left again. And still it would not occur to me that, perhaps, I could be walking back into the same building.

It was on the last day when I was chatting with a colleague about something, looked out his office window and realised that I had exactly the same view from my hotel room. But that's not when I realised I had been in the same building for the last 3 days and 2 nights. That's when I asked him whether the tall building opposite our office was my hotel ...

It's not our fault you can't prove it

2009-04-22T18:32:00.002+08:00

So on Monday evening I bought a sandwich wrap and yoghurt to-go from a rather atas nearby sandwich shop, brought it back to the office and devoured it inside of 15 minutes.

8.5 hours later, I was warded in a hospital for food poisoning and pre-mature contractions.

I just spent 2 days in the hospital with a needle in my left hand, and a concoction of antibiotics, dextrose solution and saline being drip-fed into my vein. Every 2 - 3 hours, a timer would go off and would continue until a nurse came to change the drip. Therefore, every 2 - 3 hours, I would wake up, night and day. I was not permitted to eat or drink for 18 hours.

After my discharge, I called the sandwich shop to let them know about the problem, and to ask them to please reimburse me for the hospital bill. I told them about the timeline since eating the food and getting the symptoms, the doctor's findings and the doctor's view as to the most likely and probable cause. I also told them about how the quality and colour of the output matched the quality and colour of the input.

They gave me a long description of their food safety procedures. Going by their account, no one could ever get food poisoning after eating at their establishment. They suggested that I should look to other possible sources of funding for my hospital bill. They indicated as a gesture of good faith that I could possibly look to claiming on their public liability insurance, but would need to provide a full medical report and all findings to their insurer. I would probably also need to deal with their insurer directly. Finally, there would be no guarantee of a successful claim, since I was unlikely to be able to prove that they were the cause of the problem.

They were apologetic about the fact that I had almost miscarried. However, it was likely not caused by them. However, my complaint would go through the proper procedures and would be responded to shortly.

Munch
112 Robinson Road
#01-01 HB Robinson
tel. 223 5197
Open 8am to 8pm

They can treat this as my food review.

Thanks, Zara!

2009-04-20T18:25:00.002+08:00

I would like to thank the person who suggested that I take a trip down to Zara to find a white shirt that is completely white, lace-and-frill-free, buttons up to the neck, has a proper collar and can take in the Uniboob without having a button or two fly across the room when I sit down and exhale.

Basically a white shirt I can wear to Court without shame.

The last time I was in Court, I had not yet acquired this wondrous garment and tried to squeeze everything into a normal-size white shirt and jacket. The shirt got buttoned all right, but every button from the tits down gaped open in a way I can only describe as light on appeal, heavy on horror. When I sat down, the button that closed just at the apex of my belly screamed for mercy and threatened to fly across the courtroom and smack the judge on the forehead, so I had to hold my breath. In an effort to reduce the peepshow, I forced the jacket to button shut. Perhaps that's why my pregnancy belly now looks low slung. It used to be positioned about an inch higher than this. I suspect the baby will be born with a really deep crease on her head.

Anyway, everyone on my left in court could see into the shirt, everyone on the right couldn't. I sat with the judge on my right, looked at him sideways. That was Before-Zara. Now I am free!

Although I suspect that Zara didn't actually intend for their collection of shirts to be maternity-wear. They don't have a maternity wear section. I think the design of this and the other white shirts I saw, which were just as fantastic a fit as this one are actually intended for a range of their non-pregnant customers.

Look Ma, No Hands

2009-04-16T12:44:00.002+08:00

It started off as an isolated incident at the wet market, but I realise it's getting to be quite the trend around these parts. Older women (the aunties) have decided to put their massive mountainous boobs to some good use and have started using them to PUSH PEOPLE ASIDE.

I blame it on the unnaturally stiff and conical bras they sell in the provision shops near the wet markets. Not only do they squeeze everything in and up, these bras manage to organise the giant masses of boob into something quite scary looking and also rather pointy. Don't I know it. I just had pointy smack into my back and arms about half an hour ago. I was trying to pay my bill at Kah Soh and so was auntie with Godzilla boobs. Unfortunately for me, auntie decided that her Godzilla boobs and I were intended to share the same airspace and at the same time. WHACK! went the right Godzilla boob into my left arm. I moved, very very quickly, to the right. SMOOSH! went both Godzilla boobs, into my back. And then SMACK went the left Godzilla boob, into my right arm. At this point, I just stepped right back and away, and glared at her. She didn't even notice. Just paid her bill first, chatted with her fellow Auntie McGiantBoob on the other side of the cashier's counter and left.

I'm not a homophobe, at least I don't think so, but it's really disconcerting to suddenly be given such intimate knowledge of some random auntie's privates when I'm trying to pay a restaurant tab. I felt like asking her what time she's coming home for dinner tonight.

It's Hawt

2009-04-14T14:19:00.002+08:00

I'm still trying to get over the recent robbery, so am distracting myself using anything that comes along.

...
...

I mean, there's a saying - if you can't trust your own mother, who can you trust?

...
...
...
Oh God. Nothing is sufficiently distracting. I can't get my mind off my imminent bankruptcy. How to pay bills this month. I can't even bitch to my mother about it. That's like singing to the choir, or calling the person who robbed your house to complain that you can't watch TV because they took it.

All my friends think I was nuts to give her the cheques to begin with. Surely I can't be the only person that does this. Other people open joint accounts with their parents.

...
Green Apple Green Milk Bubble Tea. With Pearl.
...
...
Forget it! Nothing works. I'm still fuming.

Fun with Filial Piety

2009-04-13T11:53:00.002+08:00

At the ripe old age of 30 + x, there could finally be a time when it would be good to start giving The Mother blank signed cheques so that she can take money out of my bank account whenever she wants.

I started doing that about a year ago, and she's already cleaned me out twice.

This month, she wrote cheques that in total not only exceeded the amount I told her she could take out, it also exceeded my monthly salary.

At the riper older age of 60 + x, she should at least have some concept of positive and negative balances. Just because she still has blank signed cheques in her possession doesn't mean that there is still money in my bank account.

I am so mad my hair is starting to curl outwards. I started this morning off with the usual list of bills to pay, except that right now I'm not quite sure HOW they are going to get paid this month.

To add insult to injury, she made a typographical error in one of the cheques (number does not match words) and it bounced, which means the bank will deduct another S$30 from my account.

In other news, I organised an Easter Egg Hunt in the house, just for The Son, thereby guaranteeing that no one else is in competition to find those Easter Eggs. The problem is that just after I hid those 5 Easter Eggs, I forgot where I put the last 2, and then we really had to hunt them down.

The worst thing about pregnancy brain-fog is that it's not so foggy that you forget that you are becoming forgetful. You know that you're forgetful, but you still keep forgetting anyway. How humiliating is it that I actually needed to write down where I put 5 Easter Eggs in my own living room.

In the 2nd round of Easter Egg hunting, The Son put forward the daring proposition that we should try hiding 8 Easter Eggs this time around. I well and truly could not locate the last one and we had to retrace my footsteps.

But other than being robbed by my own mother and having chunks of my brain take long leave, this Good Friday weekend was a fine one.

I'm sure I'm not the only one going through this

2009-04-09T23:03:00.004+08:00

The Mother and I have had a pretty decent relationship for some time, particularly after I managed to deliver up The Emperor/ First Grandson in fairly good condition. She shows her affection for him by basically letting him do whatever he wants when she's in charge.

So when she's in charge, he's in charge.

I left him at her house today because The Husband and I both had to work, and she was on leave. So the Imperial Chicken and I showed up unannounced, with his latest school project (2 painted Easter eggs) and gift (6 chocolate Easter eggs), at Grandma's house. Poor Grandma. I suspect she had plans.

Usually The Chicken will never let me leave him at Grandma's so I was really surprised when I asked him "Do you want to come with me to work, or do you want to stay at Grandma's house?" and he turned to me, looked at me seriously with his huge brown eyes and asked "Are you coming to get me later?" When I said "Er, yeah", he said "I want to stay here," and wandered off to play. Maybe it's a sign that he's getting more mature. He always seems to get right to the point when we have to sort these things out. Anyway, I was relieved.

In fact, it's just like when we tried to get him to sleep in his own bed. We asked him straight out if he would like to sleep in his own bed tonight. He looked at The Husband and I with the same huge brown eyes, and said "Are you coming?" When we said "Er, no", he said "Then I don't want to." Just like that. So cute. Makes my hair stand.

Anyway, this pregnancy is making me all rambly.

We went to pick him up in the evening, after work, and I had one of those wonderful heartwarming discussions with my mother that I really enjoy. Apparantly, in the course of the last 5 hours, she had allowed him to eat all 6 chocolate Easter eggs. Just what the doctor ordered. 6 low-quality chocolate Easter eggs. And then he couldn't eat his dinner because he was full. Put in a few mouthfuls of Emperor Porridge, and everything comes up again, porridge, chocolate syrup and a few unidentifiable lumps.

"You shouldn't allow him to eat so much chocolate" says my mother, to me.

"But I didn't allow him to eat all 6 eggs. YOU did. I wasn't even here!"

"Well you shouldn't have left 6 chocolate Easter eggs with him!" said my mother, who is never wrong.

"I didn't leave them with him. I left them with YOU. You could have said NO. You could have thrown them away. You could have hidden them. You didn't have to let him eat them."

"Anyway. You shouldn't allow him to eat so much chocolate." says my mother, who is never, ever, wrong.

Happy Yeaster

2009-04-07T15:45:00.002+08:00

I've always wondered about what it would be like to be a Stay At Home Mom ("SAHM") and I'm sure I would be very busy if I didn't have The Maid at home, but if I did, what on earth would I be doing with the acres and acres of time on my hands.

Anyway, I'm going to find out in a few months' time. Perhaps I'll even learn to drive.

All the wondering started afresh because I signed The Son up for an Easter Egg hunt with a bunch of other kids living in the same estate, not realising that it was organised by a SAHM and therefore she was going to schedule it today, Tuesday, 7 April 2009, at 4.30pm. When I got her confirmatory email, I was furious - there won't be a single egg left to find within 1 km by the time I get home from work and get The Son to the venue. In fact, since it will be nightfall by then, we won't be able to find anything anyway. How dare she!

Then I realised. SAHMs have very different days and schedules. Sigh.

I ran into the SAHM-organiser the other day on the way back from work, and she had just finished a jog on the beach or something with her son. I had just finished a day full of emails and irritation.

Did you just finish work, she asked.

Yes, why?

Oh dear. You work so late, she said.

I shrugged. How do I say that this is the usual time I get home most days.

So I guess my secret is out

2009-04-05T11:55:00.002+08:00

Day 7 without The Maid. We are getting used to it, but I think that's only because we haven't run out of clothes yet.

The Son keeps asking for her. Having fed him his last 5 breakfasts, I now realise that he has acquired my very low gag threshold. Everytime I head out to the dentist (all of once a year), the chair goes up and down maybe 20 times because of all the times we need to get up and rinse after gagging. It's like the first time I flew Business Class, except that was not gagging, it was me and the seat remote falling in love.

Anyway. So yesterday The Son and I were enjoying the amenities of the public bathroom at the Orchard Hotel (so nice) when The Son takes a good look at me and proclaims to all at toilet in his best television announcer voice,

"Mamma! How come you don't have any penis? How come Daddy and I have a penis, but you don't have any penis?"

The problem with being struck dumb momentarily is that the question gets repeated.

"Mamma! How come? How come you don't have any penis?"

"Is that your friend?" said the woman outside, in a low voice, to the other woman outside.

"No. My friends are all outside." said the handwasher.

I tried to wait until all the eavesdroppers had left, but The Son promptly unlocks the cubicle door and walks out.

Day Three

2009-04-02T11:32:00.002+08:00

I'm not actually going to write a daily blow by blow account of Life Without Maid, I think. But not only is it more stressful, it is also more interesting than Life With Maid.

Yesterday, The Son burst a water balloon while we were sitting in a moving taxi. Now that's interesting. It wasn't even his fault - I don't understand what kind of diabolical human mind could come up with a concept of a water balloon yoyo, but that's what their take-home school project was yesterday. It was, literally, a balloon filled with water, closed with a (faulty) clamp and tied to a rubber band. Boing boing boing we go, and then suddenly the back of the taxi driver's head is drenched. The expression on his face was priceless - I almost died trying not to laugh. Even the windscreen was wet. As usual, I didn't have tissues, so we had to use the cab driver's spare napkins to dry off the ceiling of the taxi, the back windows, the side panel, side windows, seat and floormat. Great stuff!

In other news, I finally checked out Diandin Leluk at the Golden Mile Complex. It. is. awesome. That is, aside from the faint but unmistakeable smell of urine and the strangely foreign atmosphere (you feel like you're in an ancient Bangkok shopping centre). There were some shops that didn't even bother with English in their shop sign. I only regret that they did not have in stock their durian with sticky rice dessert. The mango with sticky rice is swooningly good - they use extremely ripe mangoes drizzled with coconut milk and the portions are yooge. Yooge!

Today was better

2009-03-31T11:19:00.002+08:00

We all strive on a daily basis and in our own little ways to make every new day a better one than the day before. Given the low standards we achieved yesterday, this morning was easy.

The Son took one long sniff of the contents in his breakfast bowl and said "Is that the white food from Grandma's house?"

He's got a pretty good nose. I never said a word about the origins of this morning's breakfast.

This white food from Grandma's house is Da Bomb. It takes a week to plan and prepare. No one else is allowed to eat it. It's like they're preparing a meal for The Emperor.

Ingredients:

Japanese rice - the stuff that sells in the supermarket for S$20 a bag, boiled in
Home made chicken and pork bone stock, reduced from fresh chicken and pork bones, onions, garlic and celery boiled together for hours and then strained off,
mixed with carrots and a few choice soft vegetables, finely minced
and some finely minced lean pork, maybe chicken.

It's not unusual to arrive at my mother's house to find that only the Emperor's porridge has been prepared and there's no cooked food for anyone else. The rest of us have to dig in the fridge for leftovers. Once I got so hungry for something that was hot that I ate a bowl of the stuff and then got scolded.

Anyway, The Maid has left me with a long list of instructions on how to make porridge. The first 2 lines deal substantively with the relative locations of the uncooked rice and the pot. The 3rd line details how we wash rice. The 4th line deals with the water level in the pot before I start cooking. Or something like that. I haven't read it. If I do embark on this wondrous adventure, it will be the first time in my life I'm making porridge.

"Didn't you tell me before we were married that you make good rice?" asked The Husband.

"I lied. So what are you going to do about it now?"

Descent into the Wilderness

2009-03-30T11:31:00.002+08:00

So The Maid is back with her family for a holiday for the next 18 days, and we are left to fend for ourselves. The last time this happened, back in December 2008, she returned to find us all thin and depressed in wrinkled clothes, with the fridge full of takeaway food and the laundry basket overflowing with dirty clothes. I did resolve at some point that this time would be different and that I would try to take charge of at least something. At least something. I don't know what that is. Perhaps I could take charge of emptying one of the wastepaper baskets. I could do that and do it well.

Woke up this morning early and determined to feed The Son with a huge bowl of oatmeal and get him ready for school. First thing I discovered was - there is no more milk in the fridge because I drank it all last night (who knew?). So I substituted the milk in the oatmeal with ... Greek yoghurt, then tried to mask the smell (oatmeal and Greek yoghurt combined smells amazingly like vomit) with cane sugar and peach syrup.

"That's not my breakfast, right" was the first thing The Son said when I walked out of the kitchen.

"It doesn't taste nice" was the second thing he said, after the first spoonful.

"I don't like this not nice-tasting breakfast" was the third thing he said, before he started to cry.

The Husband walked in on Weeping Son and I, just as I was getting the fourth (and last) spoonful in, substituted the whole thing for bacon and buttered toast of which less than half was consumed by the intended recipient. Sigh. We are so in for it.

It just looks like a giant uni-boob

2009-03-25T16:14:00.002+08:00

So the Bump has gotten a lot bigger and to top it off, literally, my belly-button has inverted itself and the silhouette is highly visible through every piece of clothing I have, even if it's a double layer. People on the street stare. People I meet stare. Colleagues stare. Everyone stares. Why? Why? Why?

In other news, I gave a 15-minute seminar the other day on employment law and received a rather unexpected token of appreciation - a beautifully wrapped parcel. In these times, a token of appreciation extending beyond a handshake and "thank you for coming" (with a quick glance at the Bump) is extremely rare. Being cynical, and because it was so beautifully wrapped, I assumed it was something completely useless, like a large plastic bookmark. Or a paperweight.

So I gave it to The Son, unopened. Happy Birthday, Son.

Five minutes later, there's a shout from the living room. Mom! It's a Water Pen! It's so nice!

"It's a Waterman pen," says The Husband, with a most peculiar expression on his face. "You just gave our son a Waterman pen for his 4th birthday."

I dashed out of the bathroom to see The Son waving a gorgeous blue lacquer and gold pen. Grabbed it from him.

Oh dear, said I. Let me check. I think it's spoilt! I had better take it back to the shop to be repaired. I'll give you something else.

So for the last 2 days, the moment I come home from the office, The Son has sidled up to me with a hopeful smile to ask if he can have his Water Pen back. By today, hopefully, he has forgotten about it. It has been a gorgeous addition to my office stationery and I've already misplaced the pen cap.

Local Woman Boggled By The Ambiguity Of It All

2009-03-23T16:22:00.002+08:00

As I advance into this pregnancy, I am reminded once again of all that I had forgotten from the first experience, and I am also reminded yet again that I am still forgetting. My brain is in a fog - it's both terrifying and frustrating how I can forget so much in the midst of making a special effort to remember things. It's like trying to catch tadpoles with my fingers. I tried it once. Didn't get a single one. Nothing much has changed, judging by this morning.

I was en-route to the meeting. Had to check the address more than 5 times because I kept forgetting it. Then when I got there, I checked the floor number before I reached the lift lobby, checked again when I pressed for the lift, and checked again when I got into the lift. Now that's dumb.

Went to teach at NUS for my yearly stint. I have to admit I was surprised and astonished when word got back to me later on that the students were wondering whether I was pregnant or whether I had just been leading a very sedentary lifestyle. Something must be said about how fleeting and rare that kind of innocence is. Clearly they haven't been within 1 kilometre of a pregnant person for quite some time, if ever. Also, they must never have seen anyone with a paunch. Well, I would have liked to retort, just try looking in the mirror sideways a year after you've graduated from law school.

My latest visit to the gynae last week went well. Have noted that even my writing style has changed to vague aimless babbling because at the moment I can't remember what I had set out to write. Gynae did another full organ check on the baby, and confirmed:

1. an anterior placenta
2. all organs in place and growing as planned
3. she has managed to position herself so that her feet are right up against her face. Why, I'd like to know. Possibly so that she can kick me just that little bit harder.

I started to wonder about the state of my mind when I clean forgot what I was supposed to do before getting on the examination table and had to get instructions from the gynae all over again, like we had never done this before.

Local Woman Eats Her Way Through London, And Other Sad Tales

2009-03-19T14:49:00.003+08:00

I went a-travelling for 11 days at the beginning of March and found out, the hard way, that it is impossible to blog by blackberry. It just doesn't work, whether the attempt is being made from within La Fromagerie, possibly the most wonderous jamon and cheese joint in London, or the little cafe at the top of the National Portraits Gallery. I was therefore forced to eat alone, and unable to share my culinary experiences with anyone other than the waiter who passed me the bill.

Anyway, I was in London for 11 glorious (but cold) days, for 2 days of plane ride, 3 days of (kinda) work, and the balance of the trip for a mixture of culinary and cultural experiences. My cultural experience included a trip to the British Museum, the National Portraits Gallery, the Tate Modern Museum, perhaps a play or a musical or three in the evenings.

The closest I got to a cultural immersion was a 20-minute chat with a London cabdriver en-route from Baker Street to Cornwall. He had just completed a course on tourism in London, and was keen to share. I did actually enter the National Portraits Gallery and managed to view a painting of um.. someone famous ... en-route to the elevator which was to take me to the rather lovely cafe on the top floor where I enjoyed an excellent grilled mackerel (with 30 small bones), a glass of white wine topped off by an expresso. So exhausted I was from my culinary efforts that I left directly after the meal, skipping all other portraits. After all, when you sit above all the portraits for 2 hours picking tiny little fishbones out of your mouth, you feel like you have kind of seen them all.

The rest of the time was spent, quite frankly, eating. For the sake of next year's trip, here's a record of memorable places eaten at.

Truc Vert, Mayfair
La Fromagerie, off Marylebourne High Street
Dinings
Wolesley
Royal China (off Baker Street)
Bocca di Lupo (off Soho)
Tapas Brindisa (Burrough Market)

There is one more tapas place which forever has changed my world view of black rice. But I cannot remember the name.

This is a natural consequence, I suppose, of staying with a great friend who is not just a foodie but also a food reviewer. Even the stuff we bought off the supermarkets had to be great, not just serviceable. My world view of ham and green pea soup bought off a supermarket shelf has also changed forever. So will hers when she returns from her business trip to Moscow to find half of the tub of soup still sitting in her fridge, together with some leftover olives.

BTW, Kerry, I met up with the guy who is coming over to stay with you for 3 weeks in August (?) and he sends his regards.

In other news, The Son celebrated his 4th birthday recently. Due to lack of time, but mostly laziness, his parents did not plan a birthday party for him, but decided to rely on the excuse that they preferred to spend quality time with him on his birthday instead. One of his parents still managed to make the whole birthday thing much more complicated and difficult by promising his teacher that we would hold some kind of party at school next week, resulting in the other parent having to put together goody bags for x number of kids. In the course of this week, that other parent has ascertained from third party experts that:

1. "goody bag" means a bag full of goodies
2. it cannot be substituted with a handshake and a "thank you for coming"
3. our reputation and the reputation of our son would be put at risk if I gave everyone a packet of Milo instead
4. fruit does not count
5. 1 Pez dispenser plus a packet of Pez sweets also does not quite cut it
6. the wretched goody bag itself (basically an empty but colourful plastic bag) has to be purchased from a speciality shop, and I cannot replace them with recycled Cold Storage plastic bags.

I am really quite surprised by all this. After all, I myself had a childhood full of birthdays and some birthday parties, and the gift-giving thereat was always a one way street. I throw the party, I get the gifts. Who started this goody bag nonsense? Why why why?

Maybe I will just absent myself from the school party and let someone else deal with the consequences. After all, the kids can't exactly refuse to leave (their own school) just because they didn't get a goody bag right?

Also for posterity, and in case The Son wonders what we did on his 4th birthday in lieu of a party, here is the action items list:

1. 9.45am to 2.30pm: Went to the Zoo, ignored the animals, headed straight for the kids' fountain play area.
2. 2.30pm to 3.30pm: Blew out candles, cut a cake (Awfully Chocolate, plain choc cake), took pictures, Daddy gave him 3 presents. Later that evening, The Son asked the other parent in private why there were only 3 presents ("I want four"). The other parent made vague promises to deliver up a birthday card today (note to self).
3. 4pm: The Son and Daddy went to the beach to fly a paper aeroplane. The other parent fell asleep, cannot verify what actually happened.
4. 7.30pm - 8.10pm: The Son ate a bowl of porridge which had hidden in it the contents of two MarineOmega 3 capsules and 3 spoonfuls of mashed potato.
5. 9.30pm - 10.30pm: The Son painted various pieces of RyanArt for his RyanArt album under my supervision. I have at this moment almost gotten all the black paint out from under my fingernails and skin, and no longer look like I fix cars.
6. 10.30pm: Read 5 stories to The Son. He fell asleep during the 5th one, making it the first time he has fallen asleep before me during storytime. The last time I read to him in bed, I dozed off and let go of the book, which fell on his face. People were not happy.

Local Woman Finds Satan in Family Tree

2009-02-25T10:27:00.002+08:00

A cousin and I who just reconnected after 17 years were comparing our respective memories of various relatives, all on my dad's side of the family. It is a little bit startling when one is doing an inventory of the fambly tree to look closer in the branches and find Satan ensconced in there, in the form of one of my aunts. Who'd've thought. The Husband thinks that it should be more appropriately classified as Satan's Evil Handmaiden, but that's just semantics.

This is the same one who told me when I was 9 that the only reason my parents got married is because my mom got pregnant with me.

So it appears that she also told my uncle, her brother, that he was illegitimate, that my Grandfather was not his biological father as he had believed for, um, his whole life. It could possibly be regarded as a well-meaning statement if not for the fact that she told him this just after his biological father had passed away.

And to top things off, when my dad got ill and needed a bone marrow transplant, she turned out to be the only match, due to the fact that my poor illegitimate uncle was now out of the running. And she refused to donate squat. Because she was scared of the pain.

So my dad passed away. Guess who was at the funeral, chatting away with guests like nothing had happened? The Husband reminded me that she told the rest of the mourners that she was solely responsible for saving my dad's soul, as she was the one who had convinced him to convert to Christ just before he passed away.

Now if that's not Satan, I don't know who is.

So it appears we can also spell

2009-02-24T15:00:00.002+08:00

The great white maternity shirt debate has been unsatisfactorily resolved, notwithstanding all the good advice I got from my previous post. I did not make it to the shops in time, and was forced to wear my husband's white shirt to Court. Caught a glimpse of myself in a reflective surface just as I wandered into Court and shuddered. Also the buttons face the wrong way.

But anyway, that's done.

We found out last Friday, quite by accident, that The Son can spell! Everyone within 3 generations is thrilled - The Son, The Grandmother and her siblings and of course the parents who are fighting to see who should get the credit for this latest development.

It all started with the second episode of Survivor Tocantins last Friday and a hyperactive 3-year old who wanted to do something interesting right about the time the contestants were about to start the Immunity Challenge. The father had gone into hiding in the bedroom, and the maid and I were not in the mood to entertain The Son (C'mon! It's the Immunity Challenge, for God's sake.).

So I gave him a piece of paper and a pencil, and I told him to write "Zoo" on it. I had another phrase in mind, but decided that "Zoo" was more polite.

And he did. He just did. He didn't copy it from anything, and no one told him how to spell it.

I was convinced that it was a fluke. So I told him to write "Map" on another piece of paper.

And he did. Although I noted that his spelling appears to be far better than his penmanship - the direction of the loop on the "P" is driving him insane and he writes everything in 80 point-size and upper case.

"Can you write 'BASEMENT'?" I asked. After all, we could have an Einstein on our hands. Might as well find out. Could earn some money.

"No, I am sleepy now." said he. And then he walked off to bed.

"Who won the Immunity Challenge?" I asked the maid.

Ok. Not funny anymore.

2009-02-18T14:05:00.002+08:00

There must be a law somewhere that pregnant women don't work or something. Or they don't hold down serious jobs. Because if you take a good look at all the clothes in the maternity shops, you'd find that they're either:

(a) clothes most appropriate for attending at the playground;
(b) clothes that you wear to sleep; or
(c) clothes that you would wear if you were soliciting for paid sex.

(c) was a weird one. But how else can we account for the profusion of low cut gaping clothes and high slits on short skirts. I could be wrong, but most guys don't dig pregnant chicks. I think they prefer their chicks non-pregnant, thank you very much. There's nothing more terrifying than an extremely pregnant woman prancing around in a short skirt. Stand behind her on an escalator going up, and you can almost see the baby crowning.

I am having some serious problems finding a plain, long sleeved white shirt that has buttons up to the collar. If I don't find one by Friday, I'm going to have to wear my husband's shirt to court.

Help

2009-01-19T16:13:00.002+08:00

So Chinese New Year is coming around again, and I wish my problems were a little bit more mundane, like worrying about relatives who ask me when am I going to have my third child (can't! am still working on the 2nd one!) or how much to put into the ang pows this year (actually, everyone is only getting S$2 regardless of age, sex and how inclined I might be feeling about them).

The problem is I don't actually know my relatives' names. I have a stack of relatives on my mother's side who are all Ah This and Ah That, but that's not really the name on their NRIC or birth certificate. In fact, some of them are working in the Central Business District too, and I could well have dealings with them at work, but how the hell would I know, since "Ah Ter" and "Ah Kow" do not appear as part of their email addresses. Some of them have more elaborate names, like Youngest Uncle, Number Three Aunt and Seventh Sibling of My Grandfather. These titles are even less helpful to me in deciphering their real names.

Of course asking them for their names, namecards or passports could be an option at this point, but I believe some of them may already suspect that I don't know their names, ever since one of them got married, invited me to his wedding, and I walked right past him at the reception after just saying "hi!". Actually I had him confused with another relative when I received the wedding invitation, one whom I believed at that point in time was already married with children.

His sister's wedding is coming up in 2 days' time. At least, I think it is his sister who is getting married. As always, I will greet everyone with "hi!" and hope for the best.

I know at least 1 person who might read this post will suggest that I kill them all and read their names off the obituaries. THAT'S NOT HELPFUL.

New Year Resolutions 2009

2009-01-15T11:46:00.002+08:00

So the first resolution of the New Year will be that we will not be taking on any more 16-year old interns. No more. It's official, I'm cynical now.

The 2 16-year old guys that we accepted late last year were well-behaved for the first 24 hours. I believe I got some decent work out of them. For the rest of that week, they were ... less so. At one point, they locked the 21-year old intern out of her office. Then they went through her phone and sent text messages to her boyfriend. They also shredded a tonne of rough paper and stuffed it into her drawers and handbag. I think the only thing they didn't do was jack off in her office mug. Well, at least I hope they didn't do that.

And that's what they did to just one person in our office. I won't elaborate on what happened to the rest. Suffice to say that at some point, I heard the office manager screaming.

After that, we instituted a policy that we will not accept more than one 16-year old intern at a time, in the mistaken belief that one 16-year old by itself will actually behave. So we just had a 16-year old female intern for 2 weeks. She behaved herself for the duration of her stay, and only arrived once in casual party-wear. Then (at her request) I arranged for her to spend some time in another law firm where they handle high-end criminal work, so that she could have a more well-rounded experience and probably get in on some really interesting cases.

She didn't show up on her first day.

She showed up on her second day and asked to be paid for her internship. I'm not sure why she did that, since we didn't pay her either.

She didn't show up on her third day. In her view, if she was not going to be paid by the law firm for the opportunity to sit in on some meetings and court hearings, then she wasn't going to waste any more of her time, which could otherwise be spent sitting at home, chatting on the phone, shopping or watching movies.

I can't believe I actually called the head of their criminal department myself to ask him, as a favour to me, to take in this 16-year old intern for 1 month, and to make sure she learns something interesting. What the hell. I am embarrassed. I need to send him something really nice as a gift. I have no more credibility. He must think I am some dumbass.

Under the Children & Young Persons Act, we are restricted from hiring or employing anyone younger than 16 years. I think they should extend it to include 16 year olds. It's not to protect young people from being exploited - it's to prevent employers from being exploited. Also to prevent employers from killing them.

Singapore Chicken Soup for the Soul

2009-01-13T13:50:00.002+08:00

One of my ex-colleagues told me a story the other day that was so incredibly moving I just have to share it.

Especially since I have just made the incredibly difficult decision not to share the 10 coconut mochi and 10 tapioca cakes that I bought from that rather well-reputed stall in Maxwell Market.

There isn't enough to go around for everyone in my office, although it is far too much for 1 person to eat. Just to make sure that no one feels left out, I'm going to force myself to eat it all.

But anyway. So my ex-colleague is in the office through the Christmas season and her supervisor shows up one morning with 4 mince pies. I don't know what a mince pie is, but apparently it is a sweet pie about 2 - 3 inches in diameter and reasonably popular with the British. Her supervisor sets the mince pies on my colleague's desk and asks her to share these mince pies with "everyone around". Unfortunately, the immediate vicinity comprised not less than 10 adult persons.

"How should I divide this up" asked my colleague.

"Why don't you cut the pies up", suggested her supervisor. "I'm sure no one can finish 1 pie by themselves. Just cut each one up into 4 pieces, and share it out with everyone in this section."

My colleague recalled to her supervisor a similar incident in the past when she had, at the request of the same individual, patiently cubed a few tiny pastries for an audience much larger than the baker intended. Unfortunately, it left her with a desk of unappetizing crumbly shapeless mini-pastries which everyone rejected, leaving her with a pile of crumbs and flakes.

All right, said the supervisor. Please give the mince pies to the following individuals, A, B and C. You can keep one for yourself.

Ten minutes later, she gets called into the supervisor's room. Supervisor has just received a surprise Christmas gift from persons D and E, who work on a different floor. In front of D and E, supervisor asks her, didn't I give you some mince pies to distribute to everyone? Did you give some to D and E?
____________________________________________________________

I think this is proper justification for my eating everything myself don't you think.

Microwave Disaster Traced Back To Local Woman's Inability To Distinguish Between One Minute and Nine Minutes

2009-01-12T11:43:00.002+08:00

Office microwaves should be banned. They encourage people who would otherwise not interface with these complex non-intuitive and office harmony-destroying machines to lull themselves into the false hope that they can heat up their own food.

Following previous incidents, I am dismayed to discover that my colleagues will literally sneak up to the microwave after I have pressed the start button and returned to my office, to re-plate or re-utensilise whatever it is I have placed inside the microwave oven. I just tried to heat up my home cooked American-style mac and cheese, only to return some time later to see that the bowl that I use has now been covered by a plate, the food appears to have been redistributed in the bowl to increase surface area and the timing for the microwave has been shortened. I look around the office, but can't see who it is who did all this since no one is making eye contact.

Am starting to wonder if my anonymous Christmas gift from the office (a bowl specifically suited for use in the microwave oven) was supposed to mean something more than "hope you have a merry Christmas".

I Can't Believe It's Not Margarine !

2009-01-07T13:16:00.003+08:00

This is how The Husband describes my taste in music, using an insult so veiled and obscure that I need a degree in English Literature and some guidance from the author just to figure out what he means.

And all because on some days when I'm feeling a little bit maudlin, I like to listen to the not-so-obscure hits of John Ford Coley and England Dan (Just Tell Me You Love Me), Stephen Bishop (It Might Be You) and John Denver (You Fill Up My Senses). Also Joni Mitchell (Night Ride Home), which he simply refers to as "Now With 50% More Oestrogen". Finally, that rather hard-to-find hit by John Barry (The Music of Goodbye).

I've tried listening to some of the astoundingly unknown goth songs that he favours but the frequency of the drumbeat and the shrieking and moaning makes my fillings hurt. Also, if you cannot find it on Youtube, I believe it may not actually exist outside of one's head.

We've settled for the unhappy compromise of random compilations from That CD Shop which plays on a loop in the family car and pleases no one in particular, as evidenced by the constant fast forwarding and eventual switching to BBC ("Yesterday's News, Today!").

He particularly dislikes my compilation of songs used in popular advertisements. What could possibly be wrong with that?!

Surely there's been a mistake here

2009-01-07T10:24:00.002+08:00

So for the past 4 weeks I have against my will been adhering very strictly to the Newborn Infant Overnight Breastfeeding Timetable.

Which is to say I will start nodding off at 10pm, find myself awake at 2am (E@L: Do you mean 2am in the morning?) fall back asleep at 3.30am and wake up again, cursing and swearing, at the ungodly hour of 5.30am. All without the prompting of an alarm clock, mechanical or human. To say that I am extremely frustrated would be understating matters. I am extremely frustrated.

And yet somehow I'm not really tired the next day, just cranky and lacking in appetite. Don't know what to do about it since I can't exactly be taking any sleeping pills at the moment.

In other news, a colleague of mine has taken it upon himself to spread the word that I constantly malign my employer to third parties. Ironically, he tells third parties left right and centre that I malign The Firm.

I wrack my brains to recall such an occasion. I wonder if he could provide any helpful examples.

I check my blog entries, find nothing. It would be an idiot who maligns the very employer upon whom they depend for their livelihood.

I asked The Husband - do I ever talk about The Firm to you?

No, he said. You never do.

I ask my friends - do I ever talk about The Firm to you?

No, you don't. Why?

I mean, for God's sake, who is that stupid? If I were that stupid, I wouldn't even be able to dress myself in the morning.

This is just like the time when I caught the tail end of a rumour that my best guy friend and I were sleeping together.

Because I could not ever recall such an incident, I asked the Best Guy Friend, did I ever sleep with you? and he said, no and charmingly added that he was rather flattered by the rumour in any case.

Bob Dog vs. Grandma (4 Jan 09)

2009-01-05T14:28:00.002+08:00

Was a-slumbering on the living room couch of my mother's house yesterday evening when a loud argument between the oldest person in the house and the youngest one woke me up.

Apparently my mother had taken objection to her notepad and the underlying coffee table being stabbed repeatedly with a 2B pencil, and my son had taken objection to being scolded for it.

After administering the scolding, my mother walks back to the dining table to resume her dinner, not knowing that a small angry person was right behind her, ready to teach school.

"You are not supposed to scold me" said the small angry person. "I am bigger and older than you!"

"No, you're not" said the Grandma. "You are 3 years old, and I am 65 years old (lie lie lie - she's been 65 for the last 3 years). Also, I am taller than you!"

"Actually" said the small angry person "If you squat down, I am taller than you!"

Facebook reaches across space and time to wrench my guts out

2009-01-02T11:22:00.002+08:00

In this day and age where possibly everyone is either directly accessible or traceable through the Internet, I think we could safely say that there is absolutely no way that any kind of skeleton in the closet could remain undisturbed. Not with google and facebook available to anyone and everyone.

So to cut a long and tedious story short, I lost touch with most of my relatives on my father's side shortly after my parents separated some 25 years ago. Well, excluding the relatives that wanted to stay in touch just to see how we were doing. Not because they wanted to help (God forbid), but just because they were curious to see if a single mother with 3 kids would sink or swim.

Anyway, during a conversation the other day with a colleague which turned into a debate about the accessibility of just about everyone on facebook, I did a search for my dad's brother's older daughter on Facebook whom I had not seen in 2 decades. And there she was, complete with photographs of an entire side of the family I had not seen in just as long. The last time we met, we were just children, trying to tug more coupons out of the machine at Chuck E. Cheese. Now we are closer to the age our parents were at the time, and probably no less clued in to all the family intrigue that now continues to keep us separate, spiritually and emotionally.

She's now on my "Friends" list, and we exchanged a few emails, but it's just impossible to bridge the space between us, so I stopped replying. It does not help that she looks like my dad's sister now, the same one who told me when I was 9 years old that (i) the only reason my parents got married was because my mother was expecting me; and (ii) I was lucky to have been born since my dad also managed to knock up 2 girlfriends at the same time and he picked my mom to marry. No one in the family knows what happened to the other baby, except maybe my mother but I suspect if I ever asked her, that conversation would end very quickly and it would not end well.

And A Good Time Was Had By All

2008-12-29T11:17:00.002+08:00

Smoot & Co managed to have a grand Christmas this year and this is despite the fact that no leave was taken - it was the rather lovely combination of Christmas falling just before a weekend and an official closure of The Firm on 26 December 2008, which resulted in a 4.5 day vacation for all in the House of Smoot.

A definite highlight of the Christmas vacation was the sudden discovery that my favorite chef in all the world has opened a food outlet not 5 minutes away from my home! This is the man who ruined bolognaise for me after he closed the Soul Kitchen and I couldn't get hold of his Tagliatelle with Ragu sauce anymore. No other bolognaise will do. For 3 years hence, I have walked the earth searching in vain for a pasta dish that would completely satisfy me in the same way and I have grown weary and a little bit desperate.

And now...

http://sgblogs.com/entry/grill-coffeeshop-kurobuta-wagyu-kobe/233171

Ta da!

http://www.soshiok.com/articles/10862

Oh happy day!

In typical fashion, I set out to renew my acquaintance with the great Ragu and of course overdid it and now the poor man thinks I'm a stalker.

First, I called him on his mobile on 23 December 2008 (it's not my fault - he gave it to the reporter) to check whether he is still selling the Ragu, and to check if I could come by on Sunday for lunch.

Then I showed up for lunch on 24 December 2008 with my ex-secretary. He was unable to serve us anything as his oven and fridge were packed with Christmas takeaway orders. Unfazed, I ordered 10 servings of Tagliatelle with Ragu for collection on 27 December 2008 at 11am - was having a house party so what better time to pass off his cooking as my own.

On 27 December 2008, I arrived at 11am to collect my perfect, perfect Ragu. I nuzzled the warm plastic boxes, put my cheek against the top one, opened the lid, took a long, deep sniff. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Asked the poor, terrified man if he was open for lunch on 28 December 2008, as I would be returning for the Kurobuta pork loin steak with homemade apple sauce.

On 28 December 2008, I returned for a long lunch with 3 young men aged 3.5 years, 19 years and 36 years. We checked out the Hungarian goulash, purple slaw and Kurobuta pork loin steak. Despite the background noise of a Malay wedding and the fact that the rotating ceiling fan did not quite reach us, it was a lovely meal, proving at least to me that when the food is sublime, my ears stop working.

I'm not sure when I can go back there again. I hope he does not recognise me as the person who ate at Soul Kitchen in its last month of operation so often and alone that he started calling me "Bolognaise Girl".

Note to Self III

2008-12-23T18:42:00.002+08:00

There are worse things in life than locking yourself in the gynae's Venus flytrap-styled toilet with nothing on hand other than a soaked urine stick.

Another note to self - this is not the first, second or third time you have locked yourself in that toilet and required rescue. Next time - don't bother closing the door.

In other news, the bean has acquired a bellybutton and a cardiac tube that makes really loud "lub dub" noises when my gynae cranks up the volume on the ultrasound. It also has really small arm buds that appeared to be waving when I looked in earlier. I happily showed the 2D ultrasound photos to 2 male colleagues.

"Where's the vagina", asked the one who had turned all red earlier on when he extended a lunch invitation and I turned it down "because I'm going to see my gynae".

A ray of little snowy hope

2008-12-19T11:20:00.002+08:00

There is a pregnancy-related phenomenon that nobody talks about - in fact, there are lots of things about pregnancy that no one talks about but I digress - and that is nobody will touch you. I have a generally problematic relationship with my back which tends to flare up the moment the pregnancy test turns positive and that is my back will just start killing me, from start to finish of the pregnancy. No joke. Just pain, agony, stiffness, you name it. I need. a. back. massage.

And then here's the rest of the joke. Nobody will massage a pregnant woman unless they have had special training. And by special training, I mean special training in jacking up the price to twice the price of a normal massage, just to rub oil gingerly on my back as I lie on my side like a beached whale. If they were to try that on any non-pregnant, non-idiot customer, the person would just get up and walk out. I want a real massage, they would say. If I wanted you to just rub oil on my back with the tips of your fingers, I would have asked.

So it was with great reluctance that I called Qi Mantra last week, with my back in waves of agony, to cancel my next appointment with Little Snow, the woman with the magic thumb. Why, said Coco the rather nice receptionist. I'm pregnant, said I, waiting for her to say Ok then, good luck and good bye. To my surprise and joy, she said, well that's fine. Little Snow can give you a massage. She knows how to do it.

Oh joy! Oh tears of happiness! Oh happy day!

I no longer have to rely on The Husband, the king of the 20-second massage (followed by a long, heavy sigh indicating that he feels hard put upon and badly done by). I can now look forward to being bruised by a professional!!!!!!!

Leaving now.

What a somber end to a long year

2008-12-18T15:37:00.003+08:00

This December is one of the longest and most difficult that I can recall in living history, and that's not just because I am enjoying my first trimester. Basically, it has sucked. Work flow is either down or top urgent, and the work's getting pretty mean. For instance, today's work includes:

1. advising an employer re ex-employee flouting confidentiality and non-compete obligations after joining a competitor;

2. advising an employee re soon to be ex-employee putting in Singapore taxi claims for S$250 ++ per day (I don't think even a cab driver who drives around the entire day non-stop is even able to make that much money);

3. mass retrenchments;

4. some problematic employment pass applications - oddly enough, although one would not expect it at a time like this, the Ministry of Manpower has decided to slow down the processing of employment pass applications, thereby making it more difficult for companies to hire expatriates.

It's depressing.

How to Harness the Power of Murphy's Law to get Pregnant

2008-12-12T19:16:00.002+08:00

1. Purchase an expensive limited-period non-transferrable gym membership and personal training package, which is only suitable for non-pregnant women

2. Do not renew your insurance policy

3. Start a new business of your own using all your savings

4. Buy a 2-seater sportscar

5. Book a "oysters and champagne" brunch one month in advance - bonus points if they serve predominantly raw fish and soft cheeses

6. Splurge on your dream Missoni string bikini

7. Sell or give away all your baby stuff - especially the super expensive baby cot, baby changing table, baby playpen and super expensive baby bottle steriliser

8. Kill your gynae

Local Woman Accidentally Proves To Employer That Any 16-Year Old Can Do Her Job

2008-11-27T17:12:00.004+08:00

So we have 2 16-year old interns with us this week, and to prove that they are really that young, I can confirm that their underwear band is higher than their pants. I simply cannot understand what it is with all the underwear bands peeking above the pants. My son does that because we like to pull his diaper up to his armpits to prevent leakage but I don't think these 2 have the same reasoning.

Anyway. They got in on Monday which was a crazy, crazy day and I decided to find out what happens if you simply give them the work with some vague guidelines and a very very tight deadline. Someone was retrenching and they helped me to prepare the retrenchment letters.

Aside from the fact that they got the employer and employee mixed up, and the letters effectively had the employee firing the employer, the rest of it was pretty much what we needed. Surprise surprise! Any 2 16-year olds can do my work!

In other news, I've discovered that the sound of typing and my voice giving legal advice on the telephone will put The Son to sleep in 15 minutes. He came over to the office last Friday afternoon for a brief visit, which became a longer visit when he unexpectedly fell asleep on the floor after I turned away for a few minutes to take a call. So it turns out that my advice does not only have a somnambulistic effect on my clients after all. It also works on babies and young children. Interesting! (no pun intended).

The Husband thinks it's because the sounds of typing on a keyboard and my voice rambling on and on brings The Son back to his gestation period, when he was forced to listen to it for 8.5 months before he finally escaped. I guess that could also be why I tend to pass out when I hear older women speaking in rapid Cantonese. My mother and her sisters can talk A LOT and loudly too.

I think somebody has made a mistake here. Yep, they have.

2008-11-18T14:48:00.005+08:00

So I got an email from my secondary school alumnus asking for volunteers to "mentor" some of the "Normal Stream" students during the Nov/ Dec school holidays. I called up the person in charge of the "Mentoring" programme to find out what exactly the "mentor" is required to do.

Apparantly we are supposed to be giving these young 15-year olds advice about life in general, because according to the person in charge ("PIC") of the programme, these girls are going astray.

How are they going astray, I asked the PIC.

Well, said the PIC, taking a deep breath, I don't know if I should be telling you all this because it will shock you.

Try me, said I, steeling myself for the unspeakable.

Ok. Here goes. Do you know that some of these 15-year olds are already dating? And they're not going out with boys their own age, THEY ARE DATING MEN WHO ARE IN THEIR TWENTIES AND THIRTIES.

Oh, I said, for all the wrong reasons. That's it?

No, do you know that some of them are also shoplifting?

Oh, I said. Erm... any more?

Well, they are also experimenting with SEX. Some of them are starting TO HAVE SEX.

I think at this point, I just waited. If this was a comic strip, there would be a thought bubble above my head that read "So how are they going astray???"

.... "Do they take drugs", I asked, hopefully.

Ownself Interview Ownself

2008-11-18T11:49:00.002+08:00

Otherwise known as an interview with someone who has been wearing a bear suit for 3 months now.

So, Bear Bear, what do you like the most about your Bear Suit?

I guess it would be the reactions of the toddlers and younger children when they see me. They always smile, hug the Bear, and I just love the warmth and affection in their eyes when they are holding the Bear's hand. They are just too sweet.

And what do you like the least about your Bear Suit?

I hope you have no other people waiting to be interviewed, as this might take some time.

First, I must comment on how the inside of the bear head smells like someone sicked up in it, after drinking about a keg of beer. I can't get it out of my hair and skin after that. People passing by probably think I work in the restroom of a pub. Or a morgue.

Then there are the older children (and some adults) who derive inordinate amounts of joy when they gobsmack the Bear. Some of them rap the Bear's head with their knuckles like they're banging down the door in an emergency room. Clearly they are not aware of how loud banging sounds get amplified in the Bear head and make the Bear slightly psychotic.

Finally, there are the people who make rather odd comments around the Bear which make me wonder what kind of porn we would find in their computer hard drives. Like the person who called me a furvert (!!!) or the guy who said "Mmmm.. Where's the zipper.."

What was your greatest moment in the Bear Suit?

Well someone came up to The Husband and myself just last weekend and said she recognised us from THIS BLOG !!!!!!!!! It made my day, it made The Husband's day, and it made the Bear's day. Happy happy happy. I have no visitor counter, so it's always extremely gratifying to know that it's not just friends and furverts reading.

How long more in the Bear Suit?

Don't know. Until I start to like the smell, I guess. I just want to see how long I can make myself stick with a job that is so demanding of my time, energy and physical coordination. In other news, I really need to get more moooves. Sonville did an imitation of some of the Bear moves the other day and I was horrified and embarrassed. I thought the Bear was Smoov. But if Sonville's rather awkward lurching and shuffling is anything to go by, Bear Bear is clearly the Anti-Smoov.

How Lawyers Get Porn Into Their Computers - TRUE STORY!

2008-11-13T14:28:00.003+08:00

So I seem to be the one always getting in trouble with my computer in the office because it keeps snagging viruses off the Internet.

Of late, and having just survived my second computer virus attack (with everyone else in the office completely unaffected), my colleagues have started passing snide remarks about how my heavy porn usage must be the culprit behind all of this.

I find all of these remarks less than helpful, since the commentators are all male lawyers and it could well be attempts to deflect their own heavy porn usage, or it could be their secret wish to download such massive levels of free porn that they attract a porn virus. But anyway.

So I was having lunch with another lawyer yesterday (after we were both stood up by RICHARD - YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, YOU), and this is a guy I'm working with in connection with an ongoing civil litigation matter. Halfway through our entrees, he mentioned casually that one of the document CD-ROMS that I had sent on to him had contained a sub-directory labelled "Autorecover", which, once he had opened it, revealed its contents to be .... gay porn. I swear, the CD-ROM was sent to me by a client and I never opened it.

Being a family man, he declined to go through all of the photographs available for review once he had managed to ascertain the general nature of the material, but as I pointed out to him, his computer hard drive is now officially tainted with photographs of naked men.

So much so that if he ever left his current place of employment and his firm decided to check his computer for anything, they would find these photographs and could possibly come to the conclusion that they were for his private viewing pleasure.

True story!

Local Woman Reminds Self To Read Note To Self

2008-11-12T14:17:00.002+08:00

Actually this is just the unhappy sequel to the rather unfortunate incident at the Dentist.

So immediately after Dr Hottie McFlirty-Flirt is done with the dentist-chair-water-torture treatment, he tells me to avoid hot foods, all other foods and hot liquids for at least the next 5 hours.

"Whay", I ask, through a now (only now!!!) freshly numbed face and mouth.

"You will spray" was the slightly ambiguous response.

So being just the kind of woman that lets people tell her what to do, I headed down to the Food Court and ordered myself a steaming bowl of sliced fish noodle soup and et it. All was well and fine until the anaesthetic wore off at approximately 3am the next morning, then I realised to my horror that sometimes advice given to you by a qualified professional could be worth listening to.

Given that half of my face was numb throughout that meal, I was not able to distinguish between fish, noodles, the inside of my cheek and my tongue. So I chewed everything.

A thin smooty veil of legitimacy was provided

2008-11-07T10:36:00.002+08:00

So yesterday, after I WAS ROYALLY STOOD UP FOR LUNCH BY SOME PEOPLE, I decided to eat a quick lunch by myself. It's easy to make these decisions when, um, it's 15 minutes into the lunch hour, and everyone else has already left for their respective lunch appointments. Allow me to define ROYALLY STOOD UP for those of us who have yet to experience this:

Just plain "STOOD UP" is when the lunch appointment gets cancelled before it starts. Like if we are supposed to meet at 1pm, then you get the news before 1pm.

"ROYALLY STOOD UP" is when the time for meeting has already come and gone, you're standing around in the heat wave of a tropical concrete jungle afternoon wearing a fully lined full suit and then you get a call on the mobile phone.

But I digress. So after grabbing a quick lunch at the Kah Soh, where even the aunties seemed to be embarrassed that I was eating by my lonesome, I wandered around Telok Ayer Street looking for a cheap back massage. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are tonnes of cheap generic sounding back massages ("China Massage", "Traditional Chinese Massage", "Traditional Massage") available up and down the length and breadth of Telok Ayer Street. I picked "Traditional Chinese Massage", S$30 for 45 minutes, and walked into the second floor of an old skool shophouse unit.

Is it just me, or would anyone else have been vaguely suspicious if:

1. the whole shop is really, really dark;
2. the women are all young Chinese women, fully made up, wearing skimpy clothes;
3. you get your massage in a private room, where the door can shut and lock; and
4. male customers get a relatively much louder, more joyous greeting and not just from the receptionist.

Anyway, 30 dollars and 45 minutes later, I left feeling really really pain free, but really really odd. What does it mean if the woman who gave me a really great massage was wearing a skimpy white tank top, denim shorts and thick makeup? Does that make me a homophobe to even wonder?

And no, I was not offered a happy ending, thank you.

Dental Fear - now 50% less amusing

2008-11-05T19:37:00.002+08:00

I managed to put it off as long as possible, but today we bit the bullet and actually showed up for our dental appointment. I only managed to postpone it twice.

It helps that the dentist is young, male and slightly flirtatious (even during the throes of a root canal) but I can't imagine how he keeps it up even when he is rooting around in my mouth for the remains of my cavity and fishing out tiny little strands of dead nerves from my back teeth. In another life, he would be a porn star, capable of remaining in character regardless of everything that is happening around him. I suspect he would behave exactly the same way even if he was being chased through the forest by a rabid tiger. But anyway.

So we discovered today (in possibly the worst possible way imaginable) that some of us are really quite resistant to local anaesthetics. One hour into the treatment, I had been the undelighted recipient of 3 rounds of anaesthetic injections and still I could feel pain in my tooth. And by pain, I mean the pain that comes from drilling without an anaesthetic. Nothing is more depressing than being terrified of injections, making yourself sit through 3 rounds of injections because you are even more terrified of pain, and then having to endure the pain anyway. All this in the midst of the sound of non-stop cheering from the plasma TV embedded in the ceiling (some black guy was given the world's worst job and everyone else was happy and relieved).

In summary, we spent 1 hour getting injected like some kind of science experiment and then only 20 minutes on the treatment. Sigh. At some point, another dentist was called in to provide a second opinion. In the words of my dentist to the other dentist (and this is VERBATIM), "I have given her enough anaesthetic to numb an elephant and she still feels pain." I suspect I received less anaesthetic than this when I delivered The Son. The delivery also took less time. WHY WHY WHY!! *waves fists ineffectually at the ceiling*

I WANT MY PEE BACK and other sad tales

2008-11-03T16:36:00.002+08:00

They say that 3-year olds are at the stage where they want to control more of the world around them, but I think we are just about reaching the pinnacle of the wanting to control.

Yesterday, Sonville and I were having a polite discussion on Grandma's couch about jigsaw puzzles when I had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. In a continuing effort to teach him to be polite, I informed him that I would be heading to the bathroom to pee and thereafter to wash my hands and feet.

As I was bopping to the head, I heard the pitter patter of feet behind me and a little voice said "I also need to pee, Mama. I'm coming too".

Realising that I would have to let him go first if he caught up with me, I broke into a run and shut and locked the bathroom door just as he reached it. I think my maternal instincts did slow me down for a second, but they were quickly pushed aside for the greater good. I heard little hands pounding on the door, and then a little whiny shrieky voice asking to be let in because "I HAVE TO PEE I HAVE TO PEE"

Fortunately for all of us and the bathroom mat, my mother intervened to suggest an alternative venue for Sonville to pass urine. By the time I emerged from the bathroom, he had already peed on the porch and was hopping mad. Talk about a tirade, here's an extract of his rather long complaint and our responses:

I don't want to pee there! (Well, it's too late now, right?)
But I didn't want to pee there! (So what are we going to do about it)
I want to pee in the bathroom!! (Okay, you can pee there later)
I WANT MY PEE BACK!! I WANT MY PEE BACK!! (*no response*)

In other news, researchers have discovered that 45 minutes outdoors in a bear suit leads to mild heatstroke.

Finally, following on from all the mispronunciations of The Son of new and interesting English words, I have asked the Husband to come up with The Son's version of the Singapore map, featuring such landmarks as:

1. Booger Timah;
2. The Centripetal Forest; and
3. Chunky Village.

A rather low point was reached by all

2008-10-29T15:41:00.002+08:00

I got some anonymous comments asking where I been these past months, and decided to accept them at face value as an indication that I may have been missed in cyberspace, rather than to wonder if I was the unwitting recipient of sarcasm on the internet.

I have not been writing anything because my brain cannot simultaneously process both my on-again-off-again obsession with photographs, photoshop and everything flickr AND a blog entry. Just not enough RAM. As I type now, blood and clear fluid leak out the side of my ear because I still have flickr on the brain and can't think straight. I have never tried so hard to be good at something I am still so bad at. What a mouthful. But it is true, and truly frustrating.

In other news, The Son has gotten the hang of reading 3-letter words, and has moved on to 4- and 5-letter words. He also enjoys typing words on the keyboard since it gets him past his obvious writing impediment. I was so extremely proud to see him spelling out words on request. I think we started at a high point when he typed out, with no assistance, the word "NO".

Thereafter, with some help and encouragement from the sidelines, he proceeded to type out "KAT", "WURD" and then "QWERTYUIOP". See, he even makes his own words. SO SMART!!!

I am intensely proud of him. I credit myself, mainly, for all of his intelligence and I strongly believe this must be in some part due to the religiously, painfully, strict diet which I observed during the most part of my pregnancy, which included:

no soft cheese
no partially cooked egg
no sushi
no partially cooked meats
no salad
no alcohol
no caffeine

and then, towards the end..

no carbohydrates.

I am freaking awesome.

Bear with me

2008-09-16T17:13:00.002+08:00

So some quick mental calculation using my trusty calculator indicates that I have been a lawyer longer than I've been anything else... no, wait, that's incorrect, I think maybe I was a student for slightly longer, or maybe the same amount of time, depending on the result of 6+4+2+4. Anyway, whatever.

My point is, I haven't actually done much else since I graduated from school. I was a librarian for a month, a rather lazy but over-made-up and over-perfumed temp receptionist at Parfums Yves Saint Laurent for 1.5 months, a rather indifferent seller of bicycles and wedding packages for another month and then finally an administration clerk at a MNC for 2 months until I fell asleep at my desk and the boss walked by. Also, a math teacher at CJC for a month (will everyone please stop laughing, I can hear you). But nothing else particularly interesting.

Until last weekend, when I got the once in a lifetime opportunity to dress up in a bear costume (a proper bear costume!!) and walk around a mall. My initial position was bear-walker - the person that walks around with the bear to guide them around the mall and to make sure that when the little kids push the bear over with their rough play, that the bear is able to stand up again. Also, to smile and give out balloons.

Because I am such a sociable person and I do enjoy smiling at large groups of complete strangers, I went through the solicitors' ethics guidelines to see if there was anything there at all which could possibly make it illegal for me to be a bear-walker. And there it was - a solicitor is not permitted to do anything that would bring shame or embarrassment to the legal profession. Therefore, as I would be giving out balloons in public, a client may walk by and recognise me, thereby bringing shame to the legal profession, in some way or the other. I'm sure that there would be some shame. Certainly if I told my mother what I was going to do this weekend, she would feel ashamed to be my mother. So there's the shame for you.

Anyway, to get to the point, there was an extremely short bear traversing the length and breadth of a certain shopping mall last weekend and waving to all and sundry. At some point, the bear decided to spice up the action and started breakdancing interspersed with vague wu-shu hand movements to entertain the crowds of small children which were pulling the bear's tail and bopping the bear with their balloons. The bear's husband in the meantime handed out balloons and filled up the charm-gaps in the bear's routine.

I was quite surprised to discover that I had a really great time in the bear suit. I mean, I was quite the celebrity about town. Everywhere I walked, people would smile, wave, children would scream and (sometimes) not cry. People wanted to take photographs with me, and I didn't even have to smile!!! Some adults even wanted to shake hands with the bear, and to peer into the bear head to see who was inside. I was finally persuaded to take the bear suit off, and I've not been quite so popular since.

They could be on the lam

2008-09-10T15:30:00.002+08:00

Just about 2 months ago, another business similar to ours moved in next door. They literally appeared overnight, with very little baggage, and opened for business immediately. We were impressed with their speed and efficiency.

Within a month, their reception started filling up with people who just seemed to be sitting around and waiting for long periods of time. I couldn't help noticing because they have a floor-to-ceiling glass panel separating their office from the common corridor. Very patient clients, it seemed, that they had.

Until one of them came charging through our door the other day with criminal allegations against their firm. I guess you could read the situation in a few ways:

(1) if this carries on, that firm might, unwittingly, become a very good source of client referrals for us;

(2) I hope they pick their victims carefully, since at some point, someone will be sending a hit-man; and

(3) I hope, at that point, the directions given to the hit-man would be sufficiently clear so that he turns left, not right, after entering the common corridor.

Yesterday, they were closed for business and the entire office was empty and dark as the Landlord had taken it upon himself to administer some self-help remedies under the terms of their lease agreement. I looked at the padlocks and chains on the door (2 sets! 2 different sets!) and the pile of uncollected mail on the other side of the door and immediately felt better about my practice.

Today they are open again - I guess the rent got paid - and we are bracing ourselves for the onslaught of another bunch of their angry clients. In the meantime, we have taken a leaf from the book of the Amish, and have shunned them, which is probably the best that we can do under these circumstances. If they have stolen money from a client and cannot pay it back, then God only knows what will happen next.

Arcade Mania

2008-09-05T17:25:00.002+08:00

This entry is for The Son, so that when he grows up, he will remember that he owes me big time.

I took half a day off today, and in the usual way, refused to plan how I was going to spend it until the morning itself. At about 10.30am, I realised half of the half-day leave was already over, and we had only managed to watch Tigger and Pooh and play Cow Jumps Over The Moon with The Son. In order to make up for the lacklustre entertainment for the first half of the morning, we (The Longsuffering Maid and I) bundled The Son into a taxi and took him to Parkway Parade for a little bit of arcade fun.

You know it's a kickass arcade when, as you enter, you see another child being physically carried out of the premises by his mother and maid, in tears, kicking and biting his mother's hand. "That will be us in an hour's time", I said, mainly to myself.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I bought a S$20 stored value card and blew it in 45 minutes on every conceivable game that The Son could think of. He wanted to try everything, even the games of chance (that ended badly). At one point, he was trying to wrestle the gun out of another little boy's hand inside the Jurassic Park game-jeep, and almost got into a fight. Sigh.

Me, I couldn't stop yawning. I yawn just thinking about it now. It just drains me.

And then when we finally ran out of stored value on the card, he tried to pull the card out of my pocket to swipe yet another machine. We bundled him out in tears. Screaming, kicking, whining and then screaming again tears. While riding the escalator down, he unleashed a torrent of toddler wrath that was surprisingly eloquent, actually, considering the circumstances.

"You (point) and you (point) have hurt my feelings! You are being mean to me! Please say sorry. Say sorry! There are so many games here! I want to go back! I don't want to go home!"

"Enough. I'm going to count to one. ONE! Now you better stop, otherwise I'm going to give you a spanking right here right in front of everyone."

This one hit all the high notes

2008-09-04T17:26:00.002+08:00

I've just finished reading "Waiter Rant" by A. Waiter, which is a really fun read, and I think it just highlights the fact that no matter what you do, what industry you're in, and what career you've chosen, the baseline statistics will always be the same.

Up to 99% of your clients will be great to work with.

Then there's the 1%.

I had a meeting scheduled right in the middle of lunch hour today, which is fine, because it doesn't happen very often. It was a first time meeting a prospective client who was also a cold call. Also, fine.

The guy turns up half an hour early for the meeting, which basically means I have to stop eating or trying to eat, and just hustle down to the meeting so he is not kept waiting.

He is wearing a singlet (a singlet) and khaki pants, and holding what I can only describe as an ancient Hello Kitty notebook, in which to take down any precious information he might be able to glean from our very first meeting. Judging by its size and appearance, he may have acquired this notebook about 10 years ago during a holiday in Lilliput.

He is a movie producer. He is in the process of producing a movie with a budget just shy of US$100 million. We asked him, is that not a little bit on the high side.

No, he replied. Because this movie is a blockbuster.

We discussed the work required at some length, and I can summarise it very quickly for you by simply saying that he wanted us to do "everything". And by everything, I mean every agreement with every individual actor, investor, director, co-producer, cameraman, key-gripper and assistant that would have any part to play at all in the movie, as well as the document offer. Which, when one is producing a blockbuster, can amount to a huge pile of paper.

We quoted him what I thought would be an eminently reasonable price for the work. He responded by asking if we would consider accepting movie tickets and credits in lieu of fees. And by "credits", I mean the words that flash on the screen long after the movie theatre (if it was even occupied in the first place) has been vacated by the patrons of that movie. He seemed a little bit put off when we suggested that we might need to consider the proposal at length before reverting, rather than punching the air and screaming the affirmative while taking the name of the Lord in vain.

Then he departed, leaving behind the smell of perspiration and a lasting memory of his chest hair, which is now burned into my brain.

I just don't get it. Has this man never eaten at a restaurant before? When you have finished your meal at a restaurant, do you turn to the manager and suggest that the restaurant accepts something else in lieu of cash, like movie tickets and credits? I don't think the manager would even pause to consider it - they would just whip out their mobile phone and call the fuzz. Similarly, has he never bought property before? Would he offer to pay the seller and the estate agent with movie tickets and credits?

If he couldn't even do this in a restaurant without getting arrested, what makes him think he can do this in a lawyer's office? Do we look like frigging movie ticket vendors? Is that how he expects us to earn our money off this file, by selling off the movie tickets to raise the cash?

I think we should accept, I said to my boss, just to see his reaction.

This Half Life

2008-09-03T17:35:00.003+08:00

I think the Government's initiatives to get more women to have children are well-meaning, but possibly no one can completely resolve the issue of time.

When women work a full day, then unless their children only sleep in the afternoon and the women themselves stop sleeping, you only have the following timeslots for the children.

Assuming 1 child only, and that the woman takes a taxi or car to work and only works 1 hour of overtime every day.

7.30am - 8.30am
7.30pm - 10.30pm

That's 4 hours a day.

If you have 2 children, that's 2 hours a day, and so it progressively gets less and less with each successive child.

I know all the arguments about quality time and everything. But they don't mean a thing.

I miss my son.

We Can Read!!!

2008-09-01T12:06:00.003+08:00

I'm so happy. Some people have figured out how to read!! I forgot to record when he started to walk, but here's a great opportunity to redeem myself. Anyway. HE CAN READ!!!!

Words That Some People Can Read By Themselves

Ox
Car
Jet
Up
Off
No (but of course)
It
Bat
On
Go
Taxi
Cab
Lot
Bob
Dog

In other news, we have anecdotal evidence that 90% of all children are fully aware that they are also referred to by their parents as "some people". As in, "some people need to take their bath" will result in running and crying, or "some people were naughty in school today, guess what they did" will immediately result in eavesdropping.

Happy happy happy.

ERP Rate Hikes Inadvertently Remind Taxi Drivers That They Perform a Public Service

2008-08-15T17:55:00.002+08:00

I stand at the taxi stand at different times of the day, every day, and feel an odd sense of deja vu. There are no taxis available (unless you call). There appear to be no taxis for miles (unless you call, then they appear immediately). In fact, didn't we have this very problem last year, just before they increased the cab fares by 35% during peak hours?

As a reluctant but frequent taxi passenger, I try to empathise with the troubles of the average taxi driver. After all, it cannot be easy sitting in that tiny little space up to 12 hours a day with a myriad of strangers getting in and out the back of the cab, some of whom could possibly be criminals. A number of taxi drivers I've come across (and I'm not really all that chatty in a taxi) are retrenched workers who cannot find another job and have been forced to drive a taxi to support their families. I guess you could say that if anyone would like to see the poor and disenfranchised of Singapore, well, just hop into a cab and take a good long look at the driver.

But increasingly I'm starting to wonder if they are really as poor and disenfranchised as they make themselves out to be. After all, their constant moaning and grumbling did get them a nationwide fee increase of 35% during peak hours. At the back of my mind, I wonder if we have passed any anti-competition laws at all, and if so, whether they have taken effect, and if so, whether any members of the Competition Committee take taxis.

Then in response to their moaning and grumbling about the diesel prices, they just received a right to charge an extra 30 cents for diesel, per trip, per passenger.

Prior to this, in response to their moaning and grumbling about having to pay for ERP, they received an increase in booking fees during peak hours.

Not that each increase is a lot, but when everything gets added up, it's about 50% more on the fees. What other industry gets the right to increase their fees by 50% during hours when they are most needed, when people who themselves need to work for money have to choose between taking 1.5 hours to go home by other modes of public transport or paying 10 - 15 times more to take a taxi home and cut 1 hour off their travel time so they can spend that with their families?

All the surcharges and fare increases may seem like a lot, but I can tell you that it's clearly not good enough. Don't take my word for it, just try to get a cab in the Central Business District and you will see that we have created some kind of a cab-free zone in the centre of Singapore. Clearly, cab drivers are so incredibly pissed off about having to pay the additional ERP charges at the various new gantries, that they will not enter the Central Business District but will skulk around outside waiting for someone to call for a taxi so that they can utilise the booking charge to set-off the additional ERP charges. Cab drivers already inside the Central Business District see no point as well in picking anyone up without getting a booking charge out of it, so they will cruise around or hide somewhere to wait for a call.

I asked a cab driver once (mainly because I needed background noise in the cab - he didn't have the radio on) why there are no taxis in the CBD now. He went on for 20 minutes. In fact, he went on for an additional 2 minutes after I had reached my destination, and I had to sit in the taxi to wait for him to finish the explanation. Basically, taxi drivers do not wish to pay for ERP charges. They perform a public service by providing an alternative mode of transport. In fact, they are a recognised form of public transport. While they do not seek any public service award, they would very much like to be given some incentive to continue to provide the public service. Therefore they should not need to pay ERP.

I like this idea of the public service that they perform. In fact, if you really think about it, taxi drivers are also unofficial tax collection agents for the Singapore government - they collect tax through ERP charges from passengers and pay it to the Singapore government through pre-determined collection points. So they do in fact provide more than 1 type of public service.

What I would like to know is why the effect of the public service reminder, albeit inadvertent, is so damn fleeting. Obviously the same people who are now even more aware that they are performing a public service have decided not to perform it, by deserting the Central Business District during peak and pretty much all office hours.

I'm not an economist, but if the money is so bad, why do taxi drivers get to pick and choose their customers with impunity? Shouldn't they try to get as many passengers as possible, and by going to the places where there would be many passengers? Contrast the SARS period, when no one would take a taxi and you couldn't flip your hair with your hand while walking on the street, otherwise a taxi could stop. That - was desperation. That - was when they really needed the money to survive. You could say - then - that they were truly the poor and disenfranchised. Now, they're just behaving like a bunch of assholes who own the road and couldn't be bothered to do their jobs properly.

Oh by the way I notice their jobs are also protected - am I right in saying that you can only get a taxi licence if you are a Singaporean?

Hookerville

2008-08-09T01:02:00.002+08:00

So the Husband and I went out this evening for a nice dinner and a movie. We et and then went for a short walk, just to see the sights.

Hookers, hookers everywhere and not a drop to drink.

There were girls leaning on every lamppost, corner, road sign ("NO PARKING") and even the little phallic-symbol marble pavement blocks that make it difficult for cyclists to ride on the pavement. I passed a row of 5 of these, of which 2 had their own female accompaniments. Everywhere I turned, there was boobs, legs, heavy makeup, hooker clothes, long hair and high heels, and not just on the women.

Where were we? Were we in Joo Chiat? Geylang? Desker Road? Changi? ... Pattaya?

No, we were in Orchard Road, on that nice little stretch between Isetan Scotts and Adelphi. Otherwise known as Hookerville. It's really easy to get a hooker there - just pick up a rock (you can call it "The Date Rock" if you like) and toss it in any direction. Chances are extremely favourable that some hooker with a bleeding forehead will return that rock to you, one way or the other, in the next few minutes. I can't say however whether that hooker will be male or female, but well looking at them in the shadows, I would guess that you wouldn't be able to tell either.

I used to say that it was extremely difficult to walk down Geylang Road if you were a woman because people would automatically think you were a hooker. I can now say the same for Orchard Road. Any woman who isn't dressed like she's going to the wet market is an immediate suspect. In fact, any woman in casual clothes and makeup standing by a lamp-post, dustbin, pavement block or just, well, standing could be suspect.

At one point, I was walking past the Thai embassy when some guy bumped into me and copped a feel of what my son refers to as the butty butt. Now, is it just me, OR IS THERE SOMETHING TERRIBLY IRONIC ABOUT GETTING MOLESTED IN A STREET FULL OF HOOKERS. It's like ... going to a buffet and someone runs in and steals a tiny little piece of food. Or something. I'm still processing this.

I guess one thing that really sticks in my mind about the whole Orchard Road experience is what I saw when I wandered into Isetan Scotts. Now this is after passing something like 30 hookers in the street. Then I walk into the cosmetic department at Isetan Scotts, which The Husband sarcastically refers to as "The Mother Ship", and what do I see but 2 transvestite hookers using the makeup samples at MAC to touch up their makeup. Sometimes in a moment of absolute desperation, one might sneak a little bit of lipstick at the makeup counter, but these two were going through the works - foundation, powder, lipstick, blusher, lipliner, eye makeup, mascara and glitter. I glanced around to see how the sales staff were taking this, and was a wee bit horrified to note that it was actually the salesman who was giving them the makeover. I mean, they were sitting in the makeup chair and everything, and getting their faces professionally done by one of the sales staff. When MAC used RuPaul as the Face of MAC, it must have really reached their target audience, huh. I tried checking out the cosmetics myself (oh the luxury of not doing this while carrying a 3-year old) but at one point I looked at the lipsticks, all shiny and gleaming, a thought flashed through my mind, and then. I. just. walked. away.

Oh RuPaul. If you only knew what you started. You were an inspiration for GenX transvestite hookers. Now you are a continuing inspiration for GenY transvestite hookers. Long live RuPaul!

Wooo!!

2008-08-04T14:51:00.004+08:00

So the Gremlin and I decided, quite on the spur of the moment and in our best disco outfits, to venture down to the St James Power Station last Friday for some quality time at Movido and the Bellini Room.

It was kind of like 2 cats who have been declawed, being let out to hunt. The cats cling to each other, yowling and looking around with big glazed eyes, but not really sure what to do next. We get there, wander in, get lost in the gallery bar and finally after 2 dead ends find ourselves in The Bellini Room where, incidentally (and you couldn't really tell by the way I guided us there) I had just been exactly 1 week ago with Fore!

People standing around with drinks in the dark - check
Some guy singing jazz on stage - check
Bartender trying to explain to me why there is no drinks menu - check

Nothing ever changes. Now what.

We moved on to Movido, where along with about 500 other sweaty people, we kind of bopped to the beat of Timbaland's The Way I Are, together with a bunch of other songs from vastly, confusingly different music genres. At one point, I was horrified to hear the opening notes of Abba's Dancing Queen. Even more horrifying though was the reaction of the (mostly Gen Y) crowd who seemed to think it was a brand new hit song. I'm almost completely certain that some of them will be attending at Gramophone or That CD Shop with requests for CDs with "that seventeen dancing queen song by that new girl group". "Dancing Queen" was played just after Chumbawamba's "Tubthumping" (coincidentally my son's favourite song) and then followed closely by some unspeakable Salsa dance number which morphed into trance music, thereby lending support to my view that the DJ was both visually- and audially-challenged.

As I heaved around and jiggled to the beat of a dozen different beats, I felt a sense of deja-vu. Nothing much has changed since I started sneaking into what my mother calls "that Rocks Hard Cafe" and "the nite-crup". I couldn't really tell, looking at the people on the dance floor, which decade we were in. It all looks the same. I could've been in Studebaker's/ Zouk/ Buzz/ Xanadu/ Brannigan's/ Brix or even at a tea dance at Warehouse. Jesus. I just dated myself big time there, didn't I. The guys all dress the same, and there's lots and lots of older and younger guys. The older guys just stand or walk around staring blatantly at the women like they're at a meat market, while the younger guys arrive in big groups and keep together, only venturing out on the dance floor sparodically (but still in groups) to lurch around vaguely to the beat while surreptitously checking out the girls.

The women on the other hand dance with each other in groups of 2 and 3, all looking around surreptitiously at the guys while checking that their handbags are still where they left them, and that their half-drunk drinks haven't been taken away. And the dancing is all very cute but rather modest and a little bit repetitive. I should mention that I've seen groups of women dance way wilder on the dance floor at Top 10, but I believe that type of dancing should more appropriately be described as a form of advertisement, like watching a bunch of live TV commercials. Except that TV commercials don't usually involve dry humping, but anyway.

End of my 15-min blogging break.

Chinese Mothers

2008-08-01T16:44:00.003+08:00

Due to the nature of my work, I usually deal with companies and people who work in them, thus managing to avoid the insanity that comes with dealing with individuals and their family members.

There are a couple of exceptions to this rule, but after today, maybe I will make some exceptions to my exceptions. Am handing a matter now for a doctor regarding his late father's property, and I wrote him yesterday to ask for a number of documents. He called today, we chatted about them, then he asked me as a favour to call his mother to ask for 3 documents. I understand this sort of request because, look, he's busy, I'm supposed to help him with his personal matters, so I'll spend 3 minutes on the phone doing it.

I call his mother, and she sounds (a) surprisingly alert and very healthy; and (b) surprisingly pissed off. Like "Satan on a bad day" pissed off. She says "okay I'll get the documents" through what sounds remarkably like clenched teeth, and then (just like my mother) hangs up without saying goodbye. I even wondered for a moment if I had called my mother by mistake.

10 minutes later, she calls me back, and now she sounds completely enraged. YOU TELL MY SON THAT IF HE WANTS ANY DOCUMENTS HE CAN CALL ME HIMSELF OTHERWISE I AM NOT GIVING YOU ANYTHING *CLICK*

Good grief.

I called him and as I told him what happened, I had this sneaking suspicion that I really didn't need to explain very much. He just sighed, said he'll call her, and then hung up. Five minutes later, he called again to ask me to write to her as she was not taking his calls.

Jesus.

She's just like my mother.

The average speed of money is inversely proportional to the average speed of time

2008-07-24T09:57:00.002+08:00

Or something like that. I meant to say something profound, but only managed to confuse myself.

Anyway. Of late, I note that our rather earnest and well-meaning Land Transport Authority has increased the electronic road pricing yet again on the basis that the average speeds of motor vehicles on the priced roads are still very low during peak hours. I'm not a rocket scientist, but as an avid peak-hour motorist, I would like to offer up some suggestions as to how this logic could possibly be flawed. And by "flawed", I mean "wrong", like "crazy-insanely-wrong", or like "you-are-dreaming-wrong".

A car can move slowly on the road for a number of reasons, even if the road is an expressway or a major road. From just today's travelling experience, I can confirm that the cars around our car moved slowly for the following reasons:

1. The driver is picking his nose. Once the finger goes up the nose, the foot will relax on the accelerator. This was the sad plight of the cab driver in front of our car at the Marine Parade stretch of the ECP. My husband thinks it could be an Asian thing. I would respectfully suggest that this does not happen in the America because their noses are so big that everything heavier than a strand of hair will simply fall out by itself.

2. The driver is staring at some chick who is standing on the pavement. Moments earlier, we almost crashed into the back of a Mercedes Benz whose driver was observing a female pedestrian bending to pick up something from the ground.

3. The driver's mouth is open. This one I really couldn't figure out. I mean, he was driving slowly across 2 lanes and when we finally overtook him, I looked over to see what the hell this person was doing, and he was just looking off to the side with his mouth open. There was no obvious reason for his terrifyingly bad driving, so I have no choice but to conclude that he cannot drive properly with his mouth open.

4. The female driver is putting on makeup. You can't be too careful with this. Sometimes you get to the Expressway just as you are trying to put the foundation under your eye or trying to line your lips with lip pencil. Screw this up and you exit the car looking like Chocho-san from Madame Butterfly. Since I do this everyday in the car as a front seat passenger, I can't really poke fun.

But the biggest reason is...

5. It is 9.22am and there is no Mata standing at the ERP Gantry. Now anyone will know that this deadly combination is FATAL to promoting traffic speeds. The ERP rate from 9am - 9.25am is higher than the ERP rate from 9.25am - 9.30am. This means that all cars approaching the ERP Gantry at 9.22am will do everything short of coming to a complete halt just before the Gantry. If you look over to see what the road looks like after the Gantry, you will see that it is empty, whereas the road before the Gantry is packed chockablock with cars much like a valet car park lot. All drivers unfortunate enough to make it across the Gantry just moments before 9.25 am just think "OFUCKIT!!!!!", slam on the accelerator and speed off. Whereas everyone before the Gantry is still hopeful of beating the clock. Which is also probably why the digital clocks in Singaporean cars are so accurate. Screw with the time on that clock and it will cost you up to S$1.50 per Gantry.

But I digress. My point is, if the LTA is measuring vehicle speeds before and just under the Gantry, then even when the ERP has gone up to S$1000000, they will still, amazingly, puzzlingly, measure exactly the same vehicle speed. Which would be about 15 - 25 km per hour. Because that's probably as slow as you can go without actually stopping on the Expressway. If they really want to know how fast the cars are really moving, they should track vehicle speeds along that part of the ECP or West Coast Highway where there are no speed detectors and no ERP Gantries in the vicinity. Some of the drivers along that stretch could well be practising for their inaugural F1 appearance.

I thought nobody will be left behind?

2008-07-12T13:36:00.003+08:00

I was chatting with a client when she suddenly said she really couldn't focus on the conversation anymore because her 16-year old daughter had just been kicked off the candidates list of her secondary school (an Elite secondary school, incidentally) for the O-Level examinations.

Basically the school principal, vice-principal and teachers had made the unilateral decision that this girl would not do well for her O-levels as she had skipped too many classes. On the basis of this unilateral decision, they informed the distraught parents that the school would apply for their daughter to be withdrawn from the list of candidates taking the O-Level exams this year through that school. Otherwise there is a possibility that she would fail, and that her failure would pull down the overall standing of the school amongst the other elite schools when the results statistics were published.

This is mid-July, by the way.

The O-Level examinations are scheduled to be held in late October.

There are still 3 months left. About 90 days. If she studied an average of 6 hours a day for the next 90 days, that would make 540 hours. Even if she did 3 science subjects, 2 math subjects, 1 literature subject, English and Chinese (that's 8 in all), it would be just under 70 hours per subject. I don't know if you would need 70 hours for English, but anyway.

Surely if you studied the textbook for 70 hours, you'd have it committed to memory. Or at least pass the exam. Right?

Bearing in mind that we need only 6 O-Level passes or something like that to get to junior college, she could fail a selected 2 subjects (or just drop them) and still get an overall pass to get to junior college. I know someone who dropped all the excess subjects, did the bare minimum and made it to Oxford University.

Anyway. My point is not that she could still pass if she started studying now, and that that seems pretty obvious to anyone with a 3-digit calculator.

My point is that the SCHOOL decided she was already a failure even though she hadn't actually failed anything yet. Isn't it wonderful, to be 16, impressionable, fresh faced, ready to start your adult life, and your own teachers (whom, I don't have to remind anyone, are supposed to be people who encourage students to succeed) tell you you're already a failure.

I went to a semi-Elite school myself (CHIJ) and I'm happy to say that we were all left alone to succeed or fail at our own pace. At some point, I failed a couple of tests because I didn't study for them. At some other point, I did pretty well. At no point, did I have a principal, vice-principal and my form teacher breathing down my neck trying to read my entire future from a random selection of events. They might as well have tried to read tea leaves. We're 16!!! Nothing is set in stone for God's sake!!!! There was NEVER a suggestion that anyone could be held back an entire school year (!!!) for something as ephemeral and sublimely ridiculous as the reason that was given by this other Elite school. SO WHAT if the statistics don't look so good next year? That's just 1 year! If the school continues to exist for another 100 years (which I doubt - just look at their short-term attitude), that 1 failure would affect less than 1% of their centennial results. Also, I don't recall such extremely detailed statistics ever being published anyway.

Maybe the school believed there was a 0.2% possibility that the Straits Times reporter might ask if anyone had failed any subjects, and a corresponding 0.0002% possibility that such a fact might be mentioned in the published article, so it would be much better to just throw away a student's chances altogether than to risk it.

So why doesn't she still do the exam anyway, just as a private candidate? Because the red tape for the withdrawal of her Elite-school-related application would delay the process beyond the final deadline for all applications, and a submission of a private application now would get rejected as a duplicated application. Not that the school actually cares, but yes they managed to screw her twice!

We take all the effort, time, blood and sweat to raise our children and put them in a good school, maybe the best school we could think of. I guess it's because we think the school will nurture them and give them something better than we could give them somewhere else. Could this be how Elite schools have been maintaining their good track record, NOT by nurturing everyone equally but just quietly cutting out the potential failures? I'm not impressed. I thought Elite schools had good teachers. I didn't know they had fortune-tellers.

Post Script in response to requests for additional information.
1. Played truant for 1 month after 9.5 years in the same school
2. Prior to truancy, she had been described in her school reports as a conscientious student with good attendance.
3. Started avoiding school after being picked on by bullies in her class.
4. Bullying was reported to the school. School did not act as it is not their problem.
5. School did notify parents, suggest counselling. However, counselling failed to happen as school did not follow up. Also, school counsellor is on long leave, so I guess it wasn't that important after all!

Gah! Telemarketers

2008-07-10T11:04:00.002+08:00

One would have thought that, with the anti-spam laws coming into effect in Singapore, we would be getting LESS spam, and LESS telemarketers. But somehow the passing of the anti-spam laws seems to have had the effect of completely revitalising that particular industry and now I get flooded with spam in my inbox (with or without the obligatory "ADV" prefix), telemarketers calling my mobile phone all through business hours and, most recently, telemarketers calling me on my direct line in the office.

Maybe it's just me, but I find these calls extremely irritating. There's nothing more annoying than to get multiple calls from the same number during a client meeting, then interrupting that client meeting to answer the phone only to discover it's someone trying to offer me a loan. Which I do not need or want and which I never asked for. Or asking me to attend a seminar, in an area of law in which I practise. This lucky caller dialed in at 6pm on Friday, a time when everyone is scrambling to finish their work and meet all the deadlines for the day so that they can go home to their families. It was all I could do not to snap at him.

"Hi - I'm calling from a seminar organiser established in Europe. Would you like to attend a seminar to find out more about mergers and acquisitions in Singapore?"

"No. But thank you. I'm not interested."

"Why? Do you know that your potential clients will be there? Like Singapore Power. They are attending. Also Singapore Technologies. There are many more, but I cannot give you any more information because it's confidential"

"No. I'm not interested. Thank you."

"Don't you want to be in a place where your clients might go?"

".... No."

"Okay. Thank you. Goodbye."

I wanted to explode into tiny little flaming bits. Actually what I would have loved to say to him is, well, yes, if I wanted to go to places where my clients might go, then what about the toilets at Singapore Power. Why would I hang around in the toilet? Because they might go there. Maybe I should consider sitting at the reception of Singapore Power all day. In the off-chance that they might pass through, then I can hijack them and shove my namecard in their face. Because as a marketing tool, just hanging around in places where your clients might go really works.

Local Toddler Experiences Miraculous Fever Cure Following No-School Announcement

2008-07-03T18:35:00.002+08:00

So we were all in a tizzy last evening when The Son came down with a 39.4 degree fever. There was sponge baths, followed by wipe-downs, followed by medicine, followed by lots of fluids and a temperature check every half an hour and much, much discussion about whether or not we should be getting him to the Hospital for some quality treatment.

This morning, he remained listless and had no appetite. We checked his temperature again, gave him more fluids, porridge and as much television as he wanted. Still listless, sad, moping on the couch, some little baby tears and recriminations.

Then I said

No school for you today, Ryan!

And then there was

running
laughing
playing football in the house
shouting at the goalie
pissing off the dog

and

requests to attend at the playground, in search of possible friends and toys.

I don't think they know what a monkey is.

2008-07-01T18:20:00.003+08:00

So my mother, in her continuing effort to own every piece of furniture on the planet, decided to buy a second dining table the other day because she found a little bit of extra space somewhere in the house.

The table arrives on a day when everyone is out, except for my mom's maid, who walked out in the rain to greet the delivery guys and get the table into the house. This woman has served my mother for 20 years and she runs the household beautifully.

As she walks to the gate, she hears my mom's neighbour say "Excuse me, but someone threw a cigarette butt outside our gate. Can you please pick it up."

It's not us, she said. No one in this house smokes.

What about the delivery boy? I think they threw it, came the smartass response.

Ok. I don't know. I'll pick it up for you after I've told them where to put the table, she said.

No. You pick it up now.

So my mom's maid walks out in the pouring rain, to the front of the neighbour's house (48 Swiss View Singapore 288054) and picks up a wet cigarette butt to throw it away. As she picks it up, she hears the neighbour's little girl say:

Monkey can smoke cigarette!

And then the little girl pointed at her and laughed.

And then the little girl's mother said:

Yes! Monkey can smoke cigarette!

And she also laughed and laughed.

I'm really not sure where these people get off calling someone a monkey. Perhaps they've never seen a monkey before. Or perhaps they think they're monkeys too. I wonder what the Philippine Embassy would have to say about someone calling one of their most honest, hardworking, trustworthy citizens a monkey, just because she decided out of the goodness of her heart to pick up a piece of trash in front of someone's house as a personal favour.

Now this is what I call a deal.

2008-06-25T14:23:00.002+08:00

My colleague in Indonesia borrowed the office mobile phone for a week and was rather surprised to receive messages and calls from some guy named Mohammed (NOT the prophet so please don't give me any religious hard talk) which were obviously addressed to the last user of the office mobile, someone who clearly took the view that whilst the office mobile phone was in her possession, it would be entirely at her disposal.

Text message read: "I am crying today. Because goodbye with you. I not strong now goodbye. I crying now."

That was followed by a sad little call from the non-prophet asking after the last user of the office mobile, who shall remain unnamed.

I suggested to my colleague (who is now wary of crying men on telephones) that perhaps the mobile phone operators in Indonesia have taken a quantum leap forward in service standards and supplied their customers with a free admirer for every 2-year mobile subscription. Talk about a deluxe plan. And if you chalk up enough points with your talk-time, you get a free admirer upgrade (with new features!) after the first year.

Guess the one attached to our office mobile phone needs an overhaul.

Seminars Again

2008-06-24T21:43:00.002+08:00

But on a happier note this time. I got an invit to speak at another seminar. And instead of blithely taking it on, only to wallow in piteous self-loathing months later when I have to start preparing my slides and seminar speech at midnight the morning before the seminar itself, I simply put up my colleague's name for it. She absolutely hates public speaking. But how else do you learn to love something like that, except by doing it over and over and over again?

They say if you try something 11 times, you will learn to love it. Whether it's bitter gourd, public speaking or fleeing from a herd of stampeding elephants. All must try one.

Anyway, I mentioned the topic she was speaking on to 2 colleagues today (45 minutes on "Drafting Warranties and Indemnities for Share Sale Agreements") and they both made their respective monkey chewing lemon faces. As if to say there's absolutely no chance in hell they would ever be caught speaking about something so boring. What's so boring about it, I asked. Granted, it's about how to draft something, but look at the material she has to work with - Warranties. Indemnities. The absolutely gripping page-turner of every legal document. I would be surprised if people in the audience didn't punch the air intermittently throughout her speech and cry "Bravo! Bravo!" or wander into the aisles and start spinning like whirling dervishes in a religious frenzy. Sometimes when I'm reviewing a document, I can barely contain myself.

Well if that's so incredibly boring, what kind of seminar topics would you find interesting, I asked my erstwhile colleagues. And this is the list they came up with.

1. Intellectual Property Rights of the Amateur Internet Pornographer
2. How To Beat the McNaughten Test
3. 10 Brighter Ways to Evade Tax

Cupcake Mania

2008-06-20T23:24:00.002+08:00

I don't believe I ever heard of a cupcake until I was at least 20 years old. Oh crap. I just dated myself, didn't I. Well, it's true. My life right up till I was 8 was MacDonald's-free. That's probably why I'm shorter and slighter than my sister who was introduced to the magical arches when she was 2. Then when I turned 17, there was Delifrance and I discovered croissants. Finally, just before I started working, there was Starbucks and Spinelli and suddenly we were well and truly living in a cosmopolitain city. But I didn't start this post to talk about my age, which is 25. Twenty-Five, I said.

There's this itsy bitsy little cupcake store at the back end of Far East Square called "Oni Cupcakes" which sells the most amazing chocolate cupcakes. They're not Martha Stewart cupcakes with the dense sugary icing on top - they're not even all that sweet. In fact, they don't even photograph well because it's some big dark brown thing sitting there looking too cute to eat. Anyway. Given my disdain for all American desserts ("would you like more sugar with your sugar?"), I wouldn't have tried them at all if a colleague hadn't bought one for me as a gift. I took it home, left it in the fridge, left the country, came back, and it was still there. Then sometime after midnight on some random evening, I took a cautious little bite and then next thing you know there's cupcake crumbs all over my face and pajamas.

So as at the current date, I've purchased probably 20 of these cupcakes over the last 3 weeks, and what I'd really like to say to the nice girl who runs the cupcake store is this - You're really really nice, and I like you, but you should probably spend some time thinking about why it is that your chocolate cupcakes are always sold out but your 10 other flavours are always available. Maybe you should think about changing your business strategy and calling your shop "Oni Chocolate Cupcakes" or something like that. The other cupcakes are just... ordinary. Your chocolate cupcake comes straight from God. Like He baked them Himself for His special guests.

Reminds me of the Cookie Museum at the Esplanade, and the time when Rosemary (their green-eyed business development manager) spent 20 minutes trying to break my "Berry-Lite" cookie addiction by having me try every single other type of cookie they sell, of which there are about 40 different flavours. I kid you not. These people are really into variety. When we finally finished, I only had 1 question, and that was "What is your best-selling flavour?". Her shoulders sagged a little, and her smile slipped. "Berry-Lite", she said. "Thanks very much. Can I please have 5 tins of Berry-Lite".

How to Win Friends and Influence People

2008-06-20T20:32:00.003+08:00

So we have this client that we are quite keen to impress, and that means being fairly flexible in relation to the times within which we are available for meetings and anything else they need.

The client misses a meeting with me because he's caught up in another meeting, but he has documents that need collection urgently and can I please arrange for them to be picked up from his home on Saturday, anytime from 11 am - 2 pm.

Have you ever tried getting a local courier service to do a pickup on Saturday, from 11am - 2 pm? I hope you have never had to. It's ... incredibly difficult. Especially when your request is going out on a Friday evening. After further consideration, I decide it's probably best to get this done myself. So I ask my maid if she wouldn't mind heading down to some stranger's house on Saturday afternoon to pick up some documents from his maid, for S$60 and all transportation paid. She said okay, no problem.

I head out all Saturday for various meetings, return in the evening to hear a sad sad tale of woe. I don't even know where to begin.

My maid takes a taxi to the client's house, just as I said she should. No point taking a bus or MRT and taking forever. Call a taxi, said I. Waste no time. All good, right.

The taxi driver reverses into the client's gate as he is leaving. The gate was automated - it was in the process of opening to let my maid get to the main door. Cab driver gets out. My taxi is dented. It's the gate's fault. Refuses to leave until the matter is 'resolved'.

My maid takes the documents, leaves. Taxi driver asks her to stay to be the witness. She said it is none of her business, he shouldn't have reversed into the gate, and she has to go home. Then (I really can't figure out why) she tries to save me some money by taking the bus home. Then halfway through the bus ride, she realises she still has the S$60. She gets off the bus, crosses the road, takes the bus right back to the house with the dented gate and the unhappy cab driver, gives my client's maid S$60 ("payment for the documents") and then takes the bus home.

I am left with this unhappy mental image of my client staring at the dent in his gate, with my S$60 in his hand, probably wondering what on earth is going on.

It took me 5 days to track him down, apologise for the gate (sorry, it was the taxi driver's fault) and get my S$60 back. After all, this is my maid's money, not his.

How to set fire to yourself

2008-06-18T11:38:00.002+08:00

So we have a colleague who has a bit of a nervous habit in that he just cannot stop checking his shirt, pants, jacket, hanky etc for loose threads, even when we're all chatting in someone's room (usually mine - it's the cleanest) and then when he finds a loose thread he will filch my lighter or someone else's and just burn it off, right there. It's a little bit unnerving to see someone hold a naked flame to their own shirt just to burn off a tiny little bit of thread no longer than a couple of millimeters, but I guess we all have different ways of amusing ourselves.

Is it just me or does anyone else think that holding a naked flame to a cotton shirt could be a fire hazard? I'm almost completely certain that cotton is flammable. Anyway. Whether he sets himself on fire one day is not really the point - my concern really is that he will do it in my office one day and then the fire could spread to my personal belongings and then where will we be. Or he could be blocking the entrance to my office when he's on fire and then how am I going to flee. Also it will be difficult to get the smell of burning hair out of my clothes. People will notice.

If we ever wanted to play a really evil office trick on him, this would definitely be his Achilles heel. All we need to do is get him a really hot Zegna shirt, soak it in kerosene, let it dry out a little, tease out a couple of threads in front and then gift wrap it.